Family Secrets:Prequel The Beginning
by Catsluver
Summary: Sam makes an uneasy alliance with the Campbells and Samuel, leaving Dean and Bobby to their own lives. Alta Campbell is a rogue within the Campbell clan. The idea that the new leader is back from Heaven is hard enough to accept, but when she meets his grandson, Sam, back from Hell, it's too much to take, and sparks fly. One of those sparks smolders into something Alta may not want.
1. Everything I Can't Remember

_***** My grateful thanks to my awesome beta Sam's Folly.***  
Girl, you are amazing, and I have learned so much from you!  
***Any mistakes are my own*****_

_I do not own Supernatural. Anything you recognize belongs to its owner, SPN or the credited owners. No copywrite intended. I do not profit from my stories. They are purely for self exploration and entertainment,_

_This is a prequel to my previously published story "Family Secrets". You do not have to read that story first, and the prequel should flow nicely into "Family Secrets". This story, like "Family Secrets" is **AU** and a **spoiler** to anyone who has not seen season six._

* * *

Beginning immediately after "Swan Song" the ending of season six, Crowley puts his new plan into action and Sam finds himself back on earth with no idea how or why he is back. Dean is trying to make a life with Lisa while Samuel tries to get the Campbell clan together. Alta Campbell meets Sam for the first time and sparks fly.

* * *

**Family Secrets: Prequel – The Beginning**

**Prologue**

Samuel Campbell was one of Crowley's main hit men, but Samuel's gut wrenched every time he heard Crowley's voice. Samuel liked it much better when Crowley was off topside, playing out one of his schemes and leaving Samuel in charge of tormenting the poor souls in his chamber. It was never a good thing when Crowley came around.

Crowley was a hard master. One didn't become King of Hell by being easygoing or forgiving. In earth years, Samuel had been dead since 1973. That was thirty-eight years. In Hell years, it was more like thirty-eight hundred. Thanks to Crowley's 'attention,' Samuel barely had the capacity to reason anymore. He'd lost his humanity centuries ago and was already more demon than human.

The torments in Hell had a way of twisting and tearing at a soul until it was unrecognizable as human. It happened to every soul—ripped and torn and tormented until they began to do the tormenting themselves. And the change from tormented to tormenter had its own damaging effects on the souls, making them even more hideous. Samuel was no exception and he was accustomed to being twisted, scarred and deformed.

"You have a mission for me?" Samuel's bent and twisted frame kept him well below eye level to the demon before him and he had to twist even more to be able to look up into Crowley's eyes. But he twisted himself through the pain anyway because he thought it pissed Crowley off when Samuel made him look into his eyes. It seemed the only thing to do in Hell, besides torturing souls, was to find ways to piss each other off. After a few thousand years of torturing, the routine was mind-numbingly boring.

"What do you want?"

"I'm prepared to give you a gift." Crowley's voice was soft, almost soothing.

"A gift?" Samuel sneered. A gift from Crowley wasn't usually a good thing. "And what do you want in return for this... _gift_?"

Crowley smiled. "I have a job for you on earth."

"You're going to send me to the surface? What kind of new torture is this?" Samuel dropped his head and looked at his mutilated hand, burned and twisted, its claws digging into the charred floor of Hell. The hand was thick and calloused from years of use as a third foot. Samuel had not walked on two legs for two thousand years. He knew his misshapen body, knew its twisted form and the scars left from years of torture. He knew his eyes were the same black, dead eyes as every other demon in Hell. He was feared by most of Crowley's underlings. But on earth, on the surface, this body would be insufferable.

"No." Samuel cringed as the word came out of his mouth, and he waited for Crowley's wrath.

"No?"

"Don't want to go to the surface." Samuel whined like a child.

"What's the matter?" taunted Crowley. "Afraid you won't make any friends in your new school? Don't be a baby."

Samuel hated Crowley's smug little comments. Crowley liked to think he was funny, but Samuel didn't find it funny at all.

Samuel especially hated it when Crowley came up with his schemes. They always went well for Crowley but they rarely went well for Samuel.

Crowley shrugged, his hands held out at his sides in a dramatic pose. "I'll fix you up so you'll be just as pretty as you were before you died."

Samuel grimaced as he watched Crowley's feet slowly circle around his crouched form.

"You'll be able to stand on your own two feet." Crowley did a little jig, shuffling his feet in Samuel's face. "All your pretty scars will be gone. You'll be just like a shiny new penny."

Samuel asked Crowley again. "What do you want from me?"

"You're a tough negotiator. I like that." Crowley stooped down to be at eye level with his slave. "I want you to lead the Campbell Clan of hunters." Crowley paused as Samuel thought about the possibilities. "And I want you to bring Sam Winchester into the clan."

"That'll never happen. He's not a Campbell."

"His mother was a Campbell and he's your grandson." As Crowley stood, he pointed two fingers at Samuel's crouching form and raised him up, straightening his limbs and his twisted form so that the two of them stood side by side. Samuel looked out at Hell and then down at Crowley—a view he'd not seen in two thousand years.

"Now, I have business at Lucifer's cage. Sam Winchester is bringing him back and I have to be there when it happens." Crowley started toward the deep center of Hell. He turned back, motioning for Samuel. "Come on. You need to be there too."

The two of them raced through the dark halls of Hell, past the wandering, crying souls. They weaved through snarling demons and Samuel dodged the passes the demons made while Crowley sped ahead. When they arrived at the empty cage, Samuel stood in awe while Crowley was busy setting up for his spell.

A bright light beamed down from far above. Samuel assumed it was from the surface, that somehow Sam would throw Lucifer back down into the cage, and Samuel expected to see the angel falling down through that light.

Crowley hurried around gathering herbs and various objects and piling them next to the cage in a large stone container. He quickly grabbed Samuel's arm and held it over the container, slicing into him. Samuel winced and glanced down to see his blood dripping onto the herbs. But he was drawn back to the light, held by its beauty.

Two tiny dark specks came into view against the light, falling together. Samuel wondered who the two were. He had expected only Lucifer.

Crowley muttered something but Samuel couldn't hear what he said. Samuel glanced back long enough to see Crowley slice across his own arm, letting his blood fall to mingle with the herbs and Samuel's blood.

"As soon as Sam hits, get some of his blood and bring it to me." Crowley shoved the knife and a small vial into Samuel's hands. "Quickly!"

Crowley began chanting the ritual as the two specks fell closer to the bottom of the cage. Samuel's jaw dropped in wonder. They were close enough now that he could see two men, each possessed by an angel. He knew one of them had to be his grandson, a man who was able to force Lucifer back into his cage, and Samuel was a little in awe.

"Which one's Sam?" Samuel called back to Crowley, just as the two hit the cage floor.

"The big dumb-looking giraffe over there." Crowley pointed toward Sam. "Meet your namesake."

Sam lay motionless, sprawled across the floor. Samuel could see why Crowley called him a giraffe. He was tall. His body seemed to stretch on forever across the floor. His long arms were spread wide—the wind knocked out of him. Samuel reached into the cage, stretching toward Sam's lifeless hand. He barely touched the tips of Sam's fingers.

Crowley screamed to Samuel, "Hurry!"

Samuel pushed hard against the cage, his face jammed into the hot metal bars. He was able to get enough of Sam's hand into his grip to pull hard and slide Sam's body closer to him, close enough to slice across the side of Sam's hand and catch droplets of blood in the vial he held against the cut. Sam hissed and jerked his hand away. His questioning eyes pierced deep into Samuel's soul, and for a moment, he saw Lucifer's angry red eyes flash at him, threatening him.

Samuel tore his eyes away from Sam, then turned and ran to Crowley. Crowley snatched the vial and poured Sam's blood onto the herbs just as he finished the incantation.

"Adam!" Sam screamed.

Samuel turned to see Sam running toward the other man as the angel Michael began to pull out of his vessel, but the bright explosion from the stone container and Crowley's spell blocked anything else from Samuel's sight.

* * *

The blinding light from Crowley's spell was nothing compared to Lucifer's rage. Sam Winchester had ruined all of Lucifer's plans—dragged him back into that damned cage that took thousands of years to escape—and Lucifer hated Sam with a passion that could not be equaled. Now, Crowley had managed to steal Sam's body, leaving only Sam's soul behind, and Lucifer knew hatred and rage beyond anything he'd felt in all of his countless years in the cage.

Lucifer paced and snarled and spit and raged. His fists clenched. Even though he wanted to get his claws into Crowley (and he hated that crafty little demon with an evil passion), he hated Sam more. His evil gaze moved to the soul left behind, Sam Winchester's soul. And—_d__amn it!_—Sam Winchester's soul was stunning. It shone like a star—brighter than The Day Star, brighter than Lucifer when he was young and new and full of Grace.

As Lucifer looked at Sam's sparkling bright soul, he compared it to his own visage. He had seen his own body, his hands and arms charred black from the immeasurable time spent in the heat and smoke of Hellfire. He felt the drying of his skin—the drawing of his face into a ragged and scarred mask. His face, once the most beautiful in all of heaven, was twisted and hideous. He lapped his tongue across his broken teeth, honed sharp from gnawing on the luckless souls who came into his kingdom.

The time Lucifer spent in Hell changed him from a bright, shining creature to a gruesome beast. Sam Winchester was supposed to be Lucifer's 'meat suit' as he defeated Michael and ruled the earth. Lucifer had worn Sam's body for only a brief time, a fleeting moment. And in that fleeting moment he was tall and lean, muscular and beautiful—but Sam ruined that plan. So, Lucifer intended to make Sam as ugly as all the rest of the souls in Hell. Lucifer would use every torturous thing he learned during his time in the cage. He would invent new ways to make Sam suffer.

* * *

**Chapter One**

_**And everything I can't remember**_

_**As fucked up as it all may seem**_

_**The consequences that I've rendered**_

_**I've stretched myself beyond my means**_

_**.**_

_**Stained—It's Been Awhile **_

* * *

A bright light burst behind Sam's eyes, and he raised his hands to cradle his aching head. He heard a shriek and opened his eyes, turning his head to see a Raven perched on the ground next to him. It seemed to glare at him for just an instant before it shrieked again. It was so close to him that its shiny, blue-black wings lightly brushed across his face as they flapped furiously, slowly lifting the bird into the air. Sam watched stunned as the Raven became airborne and flew up into the sky, leaving him on the cold wet ground.

He was flat on his back, staring up into the gray haze of dawn. The dew on the grass soaked into his skin through his well-worn jeans. The dull green jacket over his plaid shirt offered little protection for his back, and his long dark hair was as wet with dew as the grass. He shivered against the cold morning.

_Where am I?_ His mind raced, trying to piece together what happened. _How did I get here?_ Questions flooded his mind, and—damn—his head hurt. He felt weak, beaten, as if he'd ridden here on a tornado. _Okay, Dorothy. Where the hell is here? _

Sam crawled to his hands and knees. A sudden memory brought a bright flash that tore through his brain like a knife. He held his head in his hands to try and keep it from exploding and rocked on his knees slowly, back and forth. He remembered falling, remembered the struggle with Lucifer. It was painful when Lucifer took control of his body and Sam was overwhelmed by the memory of that dreadful feeling. Pure evil had possessed him. He fell forward and retched, convulsing, as if he could puke the memory out of his body.

Silence fell around Sam like a black shroud. He was alone and it made him feel uneasy. _Where's Dean? _He thought of his brother and glanced around in search of him. There were rows of crosses—crumbling wooden ones and leaning stone ones—all lined up like weary, wounded soldiers. Sam looked at the rusted iron gate and he knew where he was—Stull Cemetery, the old bone yard outside of Lawrence.

The memory of a song came to him... _"__Gunter glieben glauchen globen. All right, I got something to say..." the strains of the Def Leopard song floated across the silent graves and the two angels facing each other. Sam turned to see Dean, cocky and full of bravado__,__ just like he always was when he was terrified. Sam knew the look._

_Suddenly Dean's face turned—bloody and beaten. Sam stared down at his hands and he could feel his brother's flesh beneath his pounding fists._ _He could feel Lucifer's delight with each punishing blow._

"Dean." Sam's voice was a ragged whisper and he dropped his head into his hands—those hands. "No! Not me. It was Lucifer. Lucifer beat Dean. It wasn't me."

Pieces of memories flashed across his mind like previews of a movie—a snap of his fingers—a million tiny, bloody pieces, and Castiel was dead. Lucifer killed him. He killed Bobby too. With a twist of Sam's wrist, and Lucifer snapped Bobby's neck.

They were all dead. All of his family. There was no one for him to go to. There was only him. _This could be a problem_, he thought. He would need someone to hunt with. He couldn't hunt by himself, could he? Sam thought about that for a moment. Maybe he could. Maybe he'd have to.

Sam struggled to stand. _I'm alone._ The realization hit him. _There's nobody left but me. Why? Why me?_ He stared at the place where he'd opened the earth with the horsemen's rings and then jumped into the cage, carrying Lucifer inside him. Sam's body shook with fear and he wrapped his long arms around himself, holding his shoulders tightly. He screamed as the pain flowed from his head, down through his body and was suddenly gone—just gone. It was the last echo of his soul, the last spark of soulful emotion draining away from him.

Sam's arms dropped to his side. He straightened and flexed his shoulders. He felt better. His headache was gone. He didn't feel guilty. He could live with those memories. It wasn't him that killed his family. It was Lucifer. Sam felt good, strong. He knew one thing. Somebody or something brought him back from the cage and he was going to find out who and why.

He heaved a deep sigh, then turned and walked out of Stull Cemetery dry-eyed and strangely numb.

For whatever reason, however it happened, Sam was here and alive and free of Lucifer. He needed to figure out his game plan, and Bobby's would be a good place to do it. It was a straight shot north to Sioux Falls, and Sam knew Bobby's house was a library of the supernatural. If he could find anything to explain his situation, he could find it there. The house would be empty now that Bobby was dead, a perfect place for Sam to hold up and do some research.

Sam had a long time to piece things together on his drive up to Sioux Falls. He stole an old Toyota Corolla outside of Lawrence, something inconspicuous.

He had memories—a lifetime full of them—but there was much that was missing. All of Hell was missing. All of it. And that gave him an uneasy feeling.

He remembered how Dean struggled with his memories of Hell. But whoever brought Sam back must have scrubbed his brain, erased his memories of Hell. That meant he owed somebody big time, and he dreaded to think who that somebody was or what they expected from him. One thing was for sure. If it was Lucifer or a demon, he would be sorely disappointed. If it was an angel? He would be sorely disappointed as well. Sam had no love for angels or demons, with one lone exception. That exception was Castiel, but he was dead.

After seven hours on the road, Sam pulled into the drive of Singer Salvage and parked in front of Bobby's house. He unfolded himself as he crawled out of the aged, blue Toyota. He stretched his long legs and glanced back at the car. _I'm gonna have to change up my ride._ He ran a firm hand along his thighs, trying to soothe the complaining muscles.

He didn't have any bags, just the clothes on his back, and he was hungry. Sam couldn't remember being so hungry, and he hoped there was food. He thought he could use a drink—or several—and he was pretty sure Bobby would have left a bottle or two around somewhere.

When Sam reached the front door of Bobby's house, his hand was almost wrapped around the knob when the door flew open. Bobby met him with hard, narrowed eyes and a loaded gun pointed at Sam's heart.

"Bobby?" Sam's dark, eyes drifted down to the barrel of the gun. At first, anger swelled deep inside Sam at the threat. Bobby was dead. This had to be a trick, a demon, maybe even the one who pulled him back. Sam knew he could have the barrel of that gun in his hands and turned on whatever was passing as Bobby in less than a beat of his heart, but caution prevailed in Sam's mind. Sam was back from the cage, so maybe Bobby was back from the dead, and the man was a wealth of knowledge. If it was Bobby, Sam could use his help.

Sam slowly raised his empty hands. "I thought you were dead. I saw you die. Lucifer snapped your neck."

"Well, I ain't dead." Bobby didn't lower his gun and his eyes kept Sam nailed, daring him to move. "How are you here? You fell. Dean said he watched you fall into the pit." Bobby shoved at Sam with the point of his gun. "What are you?"

"I'm me, Bobby." Sam kept his hands raised, his eyes narrowed. He could smell the fear rolling off the older man and Sam knew he was real. This was no demon. It was Bobby, and he was obviously suspicious. Sam didn't blame him for it. He thought it was smart to be cautious. And if he was anything, Bobby was smart.

"You got holy water? Salt? Silver?" Sam's eyes softened. "Let's go through all the tests. Whatever you need to convince you I'm me."

After Bobby was satisfied that Sam was Sam and that Sam had no idea how he got back from the cage, they sat down to some food, sandwiches and beer, comparing notes.

"Cas came back out of nowhere," Bobby told Sam. "He said he believed God brought him back. Said it was the only explanation that made any sense to him."

"God?" Sam shook his head. "You think maybe…" Sam's finger pointed back to himself. "...God?" It was an idea that had played in the back of his mind. He'd dismissed the idea so many times, but it kept cropping up. It was a hope that clung tenaciously within him, a tiny thing, so foreign within the emotionally barren man that was Sam Winchester.

"I have no clue." Bobby scrubbed a hand across his face and sighed. "Likely it's something more sinister than God."

"Why do you say that?"

"Winchesters never get a break like that… no happy endings." Bobby sighed. "So, how much of it do you remember?"

"Of Hell?" Sam turned his face away, gazing out the window. "I don't want to talk about it, Bobby. I can't…" Sam let his voice trail off. He couldn't talk about it because he didn't remember any of it. The memories were just gone. And Sam knew that Bobby would find that fact very suspicious, so he acted as if it hurt too much. Bobby would buy that.

"I understand, boy." Bobby reached across the table and clapped Sam's shoulder. "S'ok."

"How about you, Bobby?" Sam's dark eyes focused on Bobby. "How are you here?"

"Cas brought me back to life, fixed me good as new—well, good as I was, anyway. Still got arthritis in my hands and m'knees creak. Acid reflux is as bad as ever." Bobby raised his eye brows with a quirk of his head and a small smile to Sam. "But I'm alive."

"And Dean...?"

"Cas healed him right up."

"Where is he, Bobby?"

"He's at Lisa's. Been there about a week. He came back here, stayed for a week or so, and then he just packed up and left."

"A couple of weeks?" Sam tried to reconcile the timeline in his mind. That must mean he was in Hell for a couple of weeks, but he didn't remember any of it. Maybe he lay unconscious in Stull Cemetery for a couple of weeks. Sam wondered if that was even possible.

Bobby sighed and gave Sam a strange look. "He's called a couple of times, Sam. He seems to be adjusting to the civilian life pretty good if you ask me."

"I have to see him." Sam stood. "I need him if I'm gonna hunt."

"I been thinking." Bobby's tone stopped Sam in his tracks. "Maybe the time for hunting's over. Maybe it's time to settle down and give all this up."

"Have you stopped hunting, Bobby?"

There was a long silence before Bobby answered Sam's question. "No."

"Then you mean for Dean—for Dean to give up the life, not for you or me." Sam's voice was neither hurt nor angry.

"Yeah, Sam, I do." Bobby's eyes darkened and he had a fierce look on his face. "Dean's got a chance for a happy life with a happy ending." He huffed at Sam as if he was daring Sam to argue with him. Sam knew this look. He'd seen this look on Bobby's face more than a few times over the years. It was usually aimed at Dean and was usually followed by 'idjit.' "He's got a woman and a kid and maybe it's time for a Winchester to have a life. Maybe he won't have to die young and bloody."

Sam wasn't sure what he felt about Bobby's speech but he knew Bobby's feelings were intense and he needed Bobby's help. "Okay. I won't ask Dean to hunt." Sam held his hands up as if in surrender. "But I need your help. I need to find out who pulled me back and what he wants from me."

"All right." Bobby looked relieved. "You can stay here. We'll hit the books and see what we can suss out."

* * *

Samuel stood at the place where he had died, the edge of Clinton Lake, his soul intact, his humanity restored. Samuel breathed deep the fresh air of earth and gazed out across the lake. It was a long way to Pennsylvania and the Campbell clan, but that was his assignment.

_Would have been better if Crowley'd just brought me back up in Pennsylvania. Crowley's such an ass. _Samuel huffed and started walking_. I got to get me a car._

Crowley left Samuel with only a few memories of Hell—not enough to crush him, but enough to keep him in fear. He left him with enough memories to keep him under control and strong—strong enough to pull the Campbells together and control Crowley's new creation... his soulless hunter, Sam Winchester.

_**TBC**_

_Comments and Reviews are welcomed._


	2. Your Presence Still Lingers

_Many thanks to my wonderful beta—Sam's Folly. Any mistake are entirely my own._

_Anything herein that you recognize belongs to Supernatural, Eric Kripke and/or CW _

* * *

_**Family Secrets: Prequel – The Beginning – Chapter Two**_

_**Your presence still lingers here.**_

* * *

When Dean showed up, Lisa answered his knock, opening the door to find him standing on her front stoop gazing at her. He tried to smile. It faded quickly into trembling lips. His smile was a ghost, a faded memory of the bright, warm, mischievous smile Lisa loved about Dean. She could see he was struggling.

It was bad. He'd told her it would be. And here he was standing before her in one piece, yet shattered—as completely shattered as she'd ever seen anyone. She didn't know what it was. She didn't want to know.

"Sam's gone." He could barely put his devastation into words. His eyes clouded and began to fill. Sam was dead. Dean was utterly alone and here he was. He had come to her.

Lisa held out her arms and pulled him into a warm embrace. She held him and felt his body sag against hers, felt him tremble. Dean had always been so strong, brave, and proud, but now he could barely speak.

_"Whenever I picture myself happy, it's with you."_ He had stabbed her heart and soul with this revelation when he stopped by a couple of weeks ago. It wasn't a line. He didn't want anything from her. _"I just wanted you to know."_ It was the truth, and he promised he would make her and Ben safe from whatever terrible thing was about to happen, whatever terrible thing that killed Sam and devastated Dean.

"Come in." She pulled him into the kitchen. "Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?"

He shook his head.

She got him a glass of water and a couple of pills. "Come on. Let's get you to bed. You can rest." Then she led him up to the guest room and pointed him toward the shower. She listened to the water running as she got a clean tee shirt and sleep pants from his duffel. She slipped the clothes onto the bathroom counter, along with a clean towel.

* * *

When Dean stepped out of the shower, he held the towel in his hands. It was thick and soft, bright white, and it smelled like fresh, green growing things. It was so different from the thin, scratchy, thread-bare motel towels he was used to.

This was all too good. He wrapped the towel around him, letting it soak up the moisture from his body, and glanced in the mirror. He couldn't hold the reflection he saw there. He didn't deserve this.

After he dried himself, he slipped on the tee shirt and sleep pants Lisa had laid out for him. She was taking care of him. It was a strange feeling to have someone take care of him. He didn't deserve this.

When he came out of the bathroom, Lisa led him to the bed and tucked him in. She ran her hand across his face and kissed his forehead. It was a gentle touch, like a mother's comforting touch from so long ago—so long denied, nearly forgotten. He didn't deserve this.

Dean had failed, utterly and completely. The most important job of his life was to take care of his brother, take care of Sammy. Rationally, he knew he'd done the best he could, but something inside Dean knew he'd failed and he didn't deserve a happy ending—an apple pie life.

He didn't talk about it. Lisa sat next to him on the bed, stroking his face, his arm, his hand. She grounded him with her touch until the Xanax she had given him began to take effect, and he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Sam and Bobby searched well into the night for any leads on why or how anybody would spring him out of Hell.

"Well, I'm stumped." Bobby yawned, then chuckled. "And beat. I'm gonna turn in, get some shut-eye and start again in the morning. I'm thinking we're going to have to go deep and ancient for any lore that'll help us."

"Yeah, Bobby." Sam absently gazed at the glass of bourbon he held, slowly swirling the golden liquid around. It was his fifth, maybe sixth shot, on top of the couple of beers he drank with the sandwiches they had earlier. He didn't feel anything, not even a slight buzz. His gaze turned quizzical.

"Sam? Something wrong?"

"Oh, no...no...nothing." Sam gave Bobby a weak smile. "I'm just tired, I guess."

"Well, you know where your room is. Make yourself at home."

"Thanks, Bobby."

Sam slipped into the cool, clean sheets, fresh from his shower. He lay on his back, arms folded over his chest, and waited for sleep to come. It was quiet, and he was no longer sifting through and translating ancient texts. Sam waited, but sleep didn't come. His mind began to wander, and some things began to seem strange.

He had always been a lightweight when it came to drinking. A few beers or a couple of shots and he was pretty much stumbling and slurring his speech, but tonight he didn't feel the alcohol in his system, even though he drank well beyond his usual limit. It was the first strange thing he noticed, but it was not the only one.

There was Bobby. He'd known Bobby practically all his life. _Like a father to me..._The thought ran through his mind. He knew he needed Bobby, but he didn't feel anything for the man.

Sam thought back over his life. He realized that this place was the closest thing he'd ever had to a home, other than the Impala, but he didn't feel any connection here. He should. He knew this place like the back of his hand, but the feeling wasn't there.

Sam thought about the boy who grew up in this place, staying with Bobby when Dad was hunting. Hell, Sam stayed with Bobby more than Dean. He'd stay here when Dean went with Dad on hunts. He learned Latin, Greek, and spells and incantations from Bobby. Strange how that boy was so mysterious to him.

Sam's mind wandered for hours until he finally got up, grabbed his lap top and started researching. He didn't sleep at all that night, or any night after that. He eventually added the fact that he never slept to the growing differences he felt—the differences between him and the man he had been—the differences between him and every man.

* * *

The next afternoon Sam headed south to Sioux City, Iowa. He told Bobby that he need to hustle some cash and would be back by the morning. He lucked into a poker game, and it was a lot easier than he remembered.

Sam had always been pretty good at reading people. He noticed subtle telling behaviors, the way one player blinked too much when he was bluffing and another couldn't seem to look him in the eye when he had a winning hand. It was so easy, but it was more than just reading people.

Sam discovered that he could feel the other players' emotions shifting. He could smell the sweat of fear—feel the hum of excitement in his opponents. It was like reading an entirely new language. It was something he'd never done before, but it was paying off. This game was the best game he'd ever played, and he left the game with considerable winnings.

Sam found that he had other new talents as well when he walked out of the bar, the smell of blood—fresh and lots of it—and death hit him hard. It hung in the air like a heavy cloud. Sam turned toward it—the smell of sweat and fear and death mingled together. It drew him like a siren, pulling him close until he could hear the last gasps of the prey and the hissing of air rushing over the sharp fangs of the predator—a werewolf.

The beast rose up as Sam came upon it, face dripping with the blood of its victim. It had torn through the victim's chest, cracking the sternum, pulling the ribs apart, digging for the heart.

Sam pulled the pistol nestled at the small of his back from his jeans. It was loaded with silver bullets, a gift from Bobby. He raised the gun, instantly sighting the monster, and fired three quick rounds, all to the heart. The werewolf fell.

It was a rush and Sam felt it. _He felt it._ The rush of the hunt—the kill. Finally, he felt something, but as that feeling faded, he realized how empty he was without that ruch. He was brought back to hunt. That was his answer. It was the only thing he could feel. That much he knew, but he still needed to find out who brought him back—what and when would this thing try to collect. There would be a payoff. There was always a payoff.

* * *

The morning Dean called Bobby was the morning that Sam decided to leave. Bobby had been heavy into the research all week, digging deep into ancient lore but Sam spent much of the week setting up credit cards, fake ID's, and building up his weapons cache as well as researching.

Bobby stared out the kitchen window. Sam was packing the trunk of his new car. It was a sweet ride and roomy enough for Sam's large frame and long legs. Bobby thought it was a little odd for Sam. He usually tended to go for older cars. He always liked to blend in. But this time, Sam came home with a brand new black, Dodge Charger, XLT, no less. It was a beauty and it definitely stood out.

Bobby had his coffee mug in one hand and Dean on the phone in the other.

_"I'm gonna find a way to get Sam out," _

Bobby sighed and waited. Waited for Dean to continue, waited for some wisdom to come to him from on high. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for.

_"I can't just leave him there. Bobby, I can't..."_

The longer Bobby remained silent, the more agitated Dean became. _"It's Sam, Bobby."_ Dean's voice broke and Bobby's heart ached at the pain in his voice.

_"I need your help, please."_

"Dean, I think it's time to let things be. You two boys can't keep trading places, popping in and out of Hell like you're playing musical chairs." Bobby took a deep, trembling breath. He was lying, and he hated lying to Dean. "Nothing good comes of making deals."

"_I'm not gonna make a deal. There has to be a spell... something we can conjure up..."_

Sam came into the kitchen. He glanced at Bobby as he poured himself a mug of coffee.

"Only thing I know of with enough juice to pull a soul out of Hell is an angel. Did you call Cas?"

Sam moved to the kitchen table, sat down, and watched Bobby, listening intently to Bobby's side of the conversation.

"_Yes, of course. He's not answering," _

"Maybe because it's a bad idea." Bobby swallowed hard around the knot in his throat. He glanced at Sam expecting some reaction from him, but Sam's face showed no emotion at all.

"_How can you say that? How can you just give up on him like that, Bobby?"_ Dean's voice was angry and Bobby could understand that he felt betrayed. _"Sam loves you, like a father!"_

"I love both of you like sons. And I wish there was something I could do."

Sam smiled at Bobby, a strange smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"_We can find a way, Bobby." _Dean's voice changed from angry to pleading. _"There has to be __something... some spell. Hell, you got more books than the Smithsonian. We oughta be able to find __something."_

"The fact is, there's nothing we can do." Bobby felt cruel.

"_Bobby... he's not gone! He__'s__ still alive. I can feel it. He__'s__ suffering. I can't think about... what he's... what's happening..."_ Dean's voice choked to a halt.

"Look. You're grieving and grief does that to you. It makes you want to hang on."

"_You think it's just grief, Bobby? It feels so real. I feel him so strong. I know he's alive. I know he's in pain."_

"Don't you think Sam would want you to go on living? You know he wouldn't want you to make a deal for him. And I don't think he'd want you to spend your life obsessing over how to get him out."

Sam nodded his approval at Bobby's words.

"You know, I think Sam would like to see you building a life with Lisa and Ben." Bobby plopped down at the table and rested his head in one hand. This was hard, _damn hard_, harder than he thought it would be. He felt as if he was betraying Dean. He hated lying to his friend. "I think he'd like to know you're happy."

Sam silently nodded again.

"_I know he would__,__"_ Dean murmured, and the line went dead.

"You let him think I was dead." Sam stated the fact with no emotion and no judgment. "Why?"

"It was all I could do not to tell him you were here, alive and safe." Bobby eyed Sam over his mug of coffee. "He needs to know, but I don't want him running away from what he's got, coming out here after you and leaving Lisa and the boy."

"Ben."

"Yeah. Ben." Bobby shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "They're his family now, Sam. But he deserves to know you're alive."

"Okay, Bobby." Sam finished his now luke-warm coffee in one long gulp. "I'll go and talk to him."

* * *

After Sam left, Bobby turned from the doorway and made his way back into his study. He eased into the chair behind his desk and leaned back, his hands steepled beneath his chin. This encounter with Sam left him uneasy. The whole week felt flat. He couldn't tell what Sam was feeling. Sam was completely closed off, like he was just empty.

There was no show of affection, no spontaneous hug at what should have been a joyful reunion. Sam gave none of the candid smiles and gentle soulful eyes Bobby was used to from the boy, but the worst was the phone call. Sam didn't even want to talk to his brother.

Bobby felt torn. Dean was frantic and ripped apart, desperate to find his brother, and Sam didn't seem to care what his brother was going through. He'd never known Sam not to be sympathetic. This was so off. He was Sam, but he wasn't Sam. The thought had haunted Bobby all week.

He turned his chair to face the embers dying in the fireplace. _What's wrong with me?_ he thought. _The boy just came back from a romp through Hell with Lucifer._ Bobby couldn't suppress the shiver that ran through him as he thought about the gentle boy, little Sammy Winchester, a timid kid who became a giant of a man that thought too much, cared too much and brooded too much.

An image came to his mind, brutal and horrible. It was a vivid image of the things Sam must have suffered at Lucifer's hand. It was the first time he'd let his mind think about how Sam was tortured, and he could see Sam's body bent and beaten bloody. He could hear Sam's cries of pain. Bobby felt a cold mass in the pit of his stomach threatening to rise and spew across the surface of his desk. His hands shook as he clamped them over his mouth.

He stood quickly, forcing the image away and reaching for a bottle. Not bothering with a glass, Bobby tipped the bottle and took a long swig of the burning, amber fluid. _Hunter's Helper, _he thought. _That's a truism if ever there was one._ Maybe he could wash the image away.

He could understand why Sam was different. Who wouldn't be? It was no wonder that he didn't want to talk about Hell.

* * *

_"It's OK, Dean. It's gonna be OK." Sam's voice trembled, and Dean recognized the fear on his brother's face. "I got him," said Sam, nodding to Dean._

_The plan was working. Dean saw it the instant that Sam became Sam, no longer Lucifer, determination taking control over his fear as he dropped the horsemen's rings—the key to Lucifer's cage—and recited the incantation. Sam watched as the ground opened beneath the rings in a large gaping hole, a wound in the earth that led down into the cage. _

_Sam's chest swelled large with deep gasping breaths, muscles corded tight as he faced Michael._

_"Step back!" Michael yelled, commanding Sam away from the hole, commanding Sam not to go through with his plan._

_"You're gonna have to make me." Sam's beautiful face, the face of the brother Dean had loved since the day he was born was twisted in fear and rage, determined to do this last desperate thing._

_Sam looked to Dean one last time for strength and courage. Dean's gaze trailed from his brother down to the pit and Sam nodded to his brother, a thank you, a good bye, an I love you. Then he closed his eyes; a deep breath filled his chest and his face was peaceful, his arms spread wide as if he could fly into Hell like a graceful bird._

* * *

Dean's body seized, shaking the bed and waking him from his dream, his awful memory. The pain in his chest threatened to rip him apart. "Sam," he whispered, and his throat swelled shut. He closed his eyes and waited for the pain to work its way up and pour out in tears—helpless, hopeless, useless tears.

"Dean?" Lisa's soft voice was accompanied by an equally soft knock on his door. He forced himself to sit up, swinging his feet to the floor, and she sat beside him. "You need to eat something."

Dean screwed his eyes shut tight. He tried to be the man she needed, the man Sam wanted him to be. He tried to live this apple pie life, and it felt good, most of the time. But he knew she hated these times when the dreams were too much to bear, and he need to block out the reality of where Sam was and what was happening to his brother. That's when he took a few bottles to bed with him and just checked out for a day or two. He knew it was wrong. He knew Lisa deserved better, but sometimes he gave in to the pain and hid from life.

"You haven't left this room for three days." Lisa's hands fidgeted in her lap.

He could see how difficult this was for her. "I know."

"I'm not bringing food to you anymore."

He looked at her. Was this it? Had she finally had enough and come to kick the crippled worthless shell of a man out of her house, out of her life? It's what he deserved, he knew that. But she was not angry, and he could see the compassion in her eyes.

She sighed. "Ben's starting to freak out." She didn't say it, but Dean knew he was freaking her out too. "I want you to get a shower. I got you some clean clothes. Come down and eat dinner with me and Ben." Lisa didn't wait for excuses. She got up and walked quickly out of the door, her soft ultimatum delivered.

That night, dinner together was difficult. It wasn't always bad. Some nights were better than others, and some nights were good. Lisa was a great cook. She made the kind of food Dean liked, meat and potatoes with veggies thrown in because Ben was a growing boy, but Dean could hardly taste the food. He ate. He was hungry. Hunger was something he could feel, something besides grief and loss and emptiness. That's what Dean felt most. Empty.

"You want some catchup for your fries?" Ben offered.

"Yeah. Sure." Dean smiled. It felt strange on his lips, but Ben smiled back.

"Mom made pie." The kid looked up at Dean, so hopeful.

Dean put his game face on for Ben just like he always did for Sam—for Sammy. "I love pie."

* * *

Sam parked his car across the street from Lisa's house. In spite of what he told Bobby, he intended to get Dean back out on the road with him, hunting. He needed back up, and there was nobody better than Dean. But as Sam was crossing the street, something made him stop. Something wasn't right. Sam stood directly under the streetlight outside Lisa's house. He didn't try to hide. He wanted Dean to see him, but Dean didn't see him, and that wasn't a good thing.

Sam's eyes narrowed in confusion as he gazed directly into the house through the big picture window. The drapes were drawn back, allowing a view into the living room all the way through to the dining room where the threesome was gathered at the table. They were vulnerable. This was something the brothers were trained not to do. Never leave yourself exposed like that. What was Dean thinking? How could he be so foolish!

As Sam watched his brother in this warm family scene, his mind began to wander.

"_Do you ever think about it, Sam?"_

The memory of Dean's voice popped into Sam's mind. He could see Dean smiling at Ben, laughing at something the boy said.

"_Wife... kids... white picket fence? The whole nine yards?"_

Sam could remember Dean's words, and he knew this normal life was something Dean wanted. He just couldn't imagine why.

Sam watched as Lisa brought food from the kitchen. It was normal. Dean smiled at her and looked happy.

"_I'm tired of this life, Sam." _

"_I'm not coming back,"_ Sam remembered telling Dean. _"Promise me you won't try to get me out. Go __find Lisa. Live an apple-pie life."_

Sam had made a promise... _"I'm not coming back..."_

And he'd made Dean promise... _"An apple-pie life..."_

This is Dean's apple-pie life. Dean had what he'd wanted for so long—normal.

* * *

In time, it got easier. Dean's game face looked more natural. He was clean and warm, well-fed and cared for.

_But Sam wasn't..._

Lisa was patient and Dean was grateful to her for gently prodding him, leading him out of mourning. At least, she tried. Some days were better than others. But tonight he could barely see beyond his plate. He was eating all this hot, home-cooked food, safe and secure with family.

_But Sam wasn't..._

Dean didn't see Sam standing outside the house under the streetlight. He couldn't bring himself to look beyond the tiny, safe circle of Ben and Lisa. Not yet.

* * *

Sam slipped out of the light and into the shadows. He made his way around the house, searching for any signs of danger. When he found nothing and he was sure Dean was safe, he left.

Sam rented a room in a small, seedy motel not far from Lisa's house—not far from Dean. The room was just like the hundreds of rooms he'd lived in his entire life. The names of the motels changed, the towns changed, but the rooms never did. All of them were the same—worn carpet, worn drapes, worn coverlets on the beds. Sometimes there was hot water, sometimes not.

The strange fact was that Sam didn't care. All of it—the seedy motel rooms, the greasy diner food, hot water, cold water—was just a means to an end. None of it mattered.

Sammy had tried so hard to get out of the life, to have a career, a wife, kids, the whole apple pie. He had wanted exactly what Dean had now with Lisa, but that's not what _Sam_ wanted. All Sam wanted and all he needed was to hunt.

There was no doubt that Sam was not the same man, and he was beginning to think that it would be better for him to keep that fact to himself. Something happened to him in the cage, and the more things he discovered about himself that were different, the more confused he became. Even though he passed all Bobby's tests, he still wasn't Sam—not _Sammy_. Something was missing. And this presented a problem for Sam. If Dean ever knew—or if Bobby ever figured it out—what would they do? Sam knew what they did to monsters.

_**TBC**_


	3. Lonely is the Night

_To my wonderful beta—Sam's Folly—I can't thank you enough—you rock!  
Any mistakes are my own...  
Anything you recognize belongs to Supernatural, Eric Kripke and/or CW_

* * *

**Family Secrets: Prequel – The Beginning – Chapter Three**

_**Lonely is the night**_

* * *

Sam paced slowly around his tiny motel room just a few miles from Lisa's home. He didn't make it far from Dean, not yet. He wasn't sure what kept him here these past few days. It was as good a place as any to research, he supposed. He was aware that he ran the risk of running into Dean or Lisa and Ben if he stayed close, so he decided he'd pushed his luck long enough. It was time to move on.

"You were right Bobby. He looks happy." Sam folded his clothes, stuffing them into his duffel, his phone trapped against his ear by a massive shoulder.

"_Did you talk to him?"_

"No. He didn't even know I was there."

Sam continued packing, getting his phone charger from the wall and putting it into his messenger bag, along with his laptop.

"_Sam, what happened? Weren't you going there to talk to him—let him know you're alive? Are you telling me he still thinks you're in the cage?"_

"I think it would be better if he doesn't know I'm back."

"_How? How is that better?"_ Sam could hear the emotion in Bobby's voice, something near anger. "_He was pretty torn up when I talked to him. I don't think losing his brother is something he's just gonna get over."_

"I'm in agreement with you there. It won't be easy, but he will get over it." Sam needed to keep Bobby quiet about this. He needed Dean to keep thinking he was in Hell so Dean wouldn't look for him.

He stepped into the bathroom, retrieving his bag with his personal items. His voice echoed off the tiles. "It's for the best, Bobby. I saw him. Believe me. He's happy—happier than I've ever seen him. I don't want to screw that up. He's got a chance for a normal life with a woman and a kid." Sam echoed Bobby's own words back at him. "If anybody deserves it, Dean does. I don't want him to know I'm back. Better if he just gets over it and gets on with his life."

"_You sure about this, Sam? I mean, I think he'd be happier if he knew you were alive."_

Sam needed to get Bobby with the program. There was no way that Dean wouldn't know that Sam wasn't Sam. He was lucky Bobby hadn't figured it out after spending a week with him. And if he hung around Bobby too much, it was a sure bet Bobby would know that the Sam who came back from the cage wasn't Sammy.

"Bobby, listen. If Dean knows I'm topside, there's no way he won't come looking for me. And if I just show up on his doorstep, it won't matter what I say. There's no way he'll stay with Lisa and live a normal life. He'll be right back in the life. He'll die in the life, just like you said, young and bloody." _Damn. This was harder than it should be._ "You have to promise me you won't tell him."

Bobby didn't answer.

"You said so yourself. It's time for Dean to give it up." Sam waited for an answer.

Bobby was still quiet.

"Promise me, Bobby!"

"_All right. I guess you're right."_ Sam could hear Bobby's resigned sigh. _"I won't tell him."_

Sam let out a deep breath. That problem was solved. "You have any luck on finding the thing that got me out?" He walked back into the room and stuffed the small bag into his duffel.

"_I got nothing. There's not much in the lore that'll help, and I haven't heard anything through the grapevine. You doing okay? You wanna come back here for a while?" _

"No, I'm fine. I'll just keep looking for leads. I want to stay on the road and keep searching."

"_Well, let me hear from you. Don't be dropping off my radar like you did the last couple times you and Dean got separated."_

"Of course. I'll keep in touch." Sam's face shifted impatiently, listening to Bobby's reply.

"_You two are gonna worry me to death."_

"No need for you to worry, Bobby. We'll both be fine."

"_Yeah. Well, you take care, son." _

"Yeah, you too, Bobby." Sam put the phone in his jacket pocket and glanced around the room. Everything was packed and he was ready to be on his way.

He stepped to the middle of the room and raised his hands. "Castiel?" He gazed heavenward. "Castiel? It's Sam. I'm back… on earth... topside." He waited. There was no sign of the angel. A deep sigh exploded from him. His hands dropped to his sides. "I need your help. I don't know how I got here. Cas, did you bring me back?" Sam lowered his gaze and scowled, no longer expecting to hear from the angel. "Why am I here, Cas? What am I supposed to do?" But the angel didn't answer his prayers.

Maybe it wasn't God that brought him back or Castiel, but it had to be someone or some_thing_ powerful—either demons or angels. Nothing else besides God was powerful enough. Whichever it was, it was a sure bet they had a reason. It was another sure bet the reason wasn't for Sam's benefit. Sam knew demons and he knew angels. He didn't trust either species or their power games. In fact, Sam didn't trust anyone.

Castiel wouldn't help him and Sam couldn't track angels, but he knew how to follow demon signs. He was very good at tracking demons. So he followed a trail east to Sandusky, Ohio... to a bar near Lake Erie.

* * *

"You have got to be kidding me!" Alta Campbell squared off at her cousin Gwyn.

"No, I'm serious. Believe me. We did every test we know. He's not possessed. He's not a shifter or a revenant. He passed everything we threw at him." Gwyn placed a calming hand on Alta's shoulder.

Alta Campbell was a tiny woman, only five foot two, but she could pack a powerful punch. Like most all the Campbells, she was raised as a hunter, and she had the skills, the power and the build of an athlete. The two women looked enough alike to be sisters. Both had dark, auburn hair and bright green eyes. It was a Campbell trait, as much as the blond-haired, blue-eyed ones. It seemed Campbells were all either one or the other.

Alta threw her hands up in disbelief. She'd never heard of Samuel Campbell and now he was suddenly not only back from the dead after nearly forty years, but he was pulling the clan together like a military unit.

The Campbells had always been a close-knit clan. Over centuries, they'd carried on the secret tradition of hunting vampires, werewolves, spirits and anything else of a supernatural nature that threatened people, and they always hunted with other clan members, never outside the clan. Still, they hadn't been pulled together like Samuel was doing, not in a hundred years or more.

"I don't know...back from the dead? How is that even possible? You ever heard of anything like that before?"

"Besides Jesus? No." Marks soft voice got Alta's attention and she turned to face him. Mark Campbell was a man of few words. But Alta knew him to be smart and one of the best hunters in the clan. Mark was only twenty, twelve years younger than Alta, but the bond between them was strong. She'd helped to train him since he was twelve and first started hunting. They often hunted together, just as she often hunted with Gwyn.

"What do you think, Mark?" Alta quizzed her younger cousin. "Do you buy this...this...whatever the hell this is?"

"Yeah, I think he's the real deal. And he's a good leader." Mark ran a chammy along the barrel of the gun he was cleaning.

"The best clan leader I can remember." Gwyn agreed.

"Amazing, I know," Mark said. "But I believe he's who he says he is."

"Amazing? It's nuts!" Alta was not so easily convinced. "He's not some messiah. That's dangerous thinking."

"Alta, it's not like that. Do you think we just fell for this man's story like idiots?" Gwyn asked. "We're not stupid or naive. We're Campbells. We know how to suss out a monster and we know how to suss out a fake. Have a little faith in us. At least meet the man and see what you think."

Alta shifted from one foot to the other, crossing her arms over her chest. Alta's mother and father died years ago, and these two, Gwyn and Mark, were her closest kin. She hunted with them, and she trusted them. "You know I haven't hunted with the rest of the clan in a few years now."

"More than a few, I know. And I know why, but it's time to come back," said Gwyn.

"We could use you. You're an awesome hunter," Mark said.

Alta looked at Mark's cute grin. He was her blond-haired, blue-eyed cousin—a friend, a hunting partner, and she trusted him. Besides, that grin could always melt her heart.

"It's safer to hunt with more back up than just me or Gwyn. We're family, Alta. Samuel wants to meet you, and everyone wants you back."

"Not everyone." Alta sighed. She couldn't quite wrap her mind around this whole resurrection story, but she trusted Gwyn and Mark. Alta turned to Gwyn. "I've seen some unbelievably supernatural things in my time, but this tops 'em all." She huffed out a deep sigh. "I'll meet Samuel, and if Christian can let bygones be bygones, I suppose I can hunt with the clan again."

Gwyn smiled at Alta. "Don't you worry. Samuel has Christian under control. You would be surprised."

"Where is the man?"

"Samuel and Christian went to Ohio. They're tracking a demon." Mark said.

"Well aren't the two of them cozy?" Alta smirked.

* * *

Sam eased into the little water-front pub and made his way to the bar. He knew eyes were watching him when he entered the bar. Eyes were always watching him, A man six foot four didn't have much chance of entering unnoticed. Sam didn't even try. He worked at his physique. He knew he was big and he built up his muscles to be even bigger. He worked at keeping his facial expression intimidating. It tended make most people leave him alone. Then it became his choice who he interacted with and why. Tonight he wasn't here for human interaction. He was here hunting a demon—the one he tracked here.

"What can I get you?" The woman bartender had a friendly face and a welcoming smile for Sam, but he barely noticed her.

"Whatever's on tap is fine," he answered. Sam's attention was drawn to the two men who were focused on him. They sat at a table situated in the back corner of the bar, near the rear exit with a view of the entire place. It was the location a hunter would pick, and Sam was pretty sure that's what the two men were—hunters.

He glanced at them, making a quick assessment, but didn't let his eyes dwell. There was no need to alert them that he was aware of them. Sam didn't get the feeling that either of the men was his demon.

One of the men was older. Sam figured he was well into his fifties. He was bald, and he had beady blue eyes. He had an air of well-deserved confidence. No doubt the man had seen his fair share of hunts.

The second guy was a smaller build but solid. He looked to be about forty, with more than a few miles on him. He had an overconfident air about him, sitting back with his chair balanced on two legs, leaning on the wall behind him. For all his cockiness, he looked as if he could be competent in a fight.

So what were these hunters doing here? It couldn't be a coincidence that they were here just when Sam tracked a demon to the exact same place. Sam didn't believe in coincidences.

He wondered if the hunters were tracking the same demon or if they knew who he was and were tracking him. They wouldn't be the first hunters to track him down in order to kill him. Others had tried.

Gordon Walker once held Dean hostage in order to lure Sam into an abandoned warehouse. Walker had tripwire and hand grenades at the doors for Sam to stumble on and blow himself up, but Sam outsmarted Walker and got him arrested.

There was Kubrick and Creedy, who were convinced that God Almighty sent them on a mission to kill the Antichrist—that being Sam, of course. Dean came to his rescue that time.

Kubrick hunted Sam again with Gordon Walker. The unfortunate Walker got turned by a vampire and Sam beheaded him with razor wire and brute strength.

Sam sat at the bar and assessed his options. It didn't appear that either of the two men was ready to make a move. They would most likely follow him when he left the bar and try to catch him unaware. They could try, Sam mused, a slight smile against the rim of his mug.

"Nuts?" The bartender placed a bowl of nuts in front of Sam. She spread her long arms across the bar and leaned toward him, giving him a nice view of the swell of her breasts, and he thought about dipping his tongue into the dark shadow between those firm globes. Her soft, dark eyes floated over his face. "Anything else I can get you?"

"Thanks. I'm good." He could tell she was interested, and he felt a warm stir in his gut. He thought he'd like to bury his hands in that long, raven-black hair, but he had more pressing matters to deal with.

"Excuse me," he told her, and nodded briefly. Then he stood and walked toward the hunters.

Sam didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of the older man. His right hand was in the pocket of his jacket, grasping a silver butterfly knife, just in case this encounter went south. He stood straight to his full height, his chest swelled out, his eyes focused and glaring. He meant to make it clear that he would not be intimidated, and he inched closer to the table until his thighs pressed against the edge.

"You got something to say to me?" Sam addressed the older man, but he kept his companion in his peripheral vision.

"Sam Winchester." The older man's smile seemed genuine. "I've been looking for you. I'm your grandfather."

Sam snorted out a laugh. "My grandfather's dead—both of them."

"I was dead, but it seems we share a common fate. We've both been given a second chance."

"I hardly think our fates have been the same," Sam scowled.

"You're right." The man gave him a placating smile. "Please sit down. He gestured to the chair next to Sam and turned his attention to his companion. "Christian, how 'bout you go get us all a beer?"

Christian slowly dropped the front legs of his chair to the floor and stood.

Sam shifted slightly toward the man. His left hand clenched into a fist at his side and his right hand stroked the blade in his pocket. "Christian." Sam's voice was low with warning as he glared at the man. "How 'bout you sit your ass down."

Christian stared for a moment, his eyes roaming over Sam, assessing him.

_Cocky little bastard_, Sam thought, and he made no effort to hide his contempt. "You stay where I can see you."

"All right." The older man held out his hands, one toward each man. "Let's not get into a pissing contest." He looked as if he were trying to calm two angry teenagers. "Christian, sit down."

Sam watched as Christian lowered himself to his chair, never taking his eyes off Sam.

Sam turned his gaze back to the older man, tilting his head back slightly, sticking out his chin—a primal display of disturst. Sam didn't believe this man, and there was no way he would trust him. The man wasn't a demon, but whatever he was, Sam was pretty sure he wasn't here to do any favors.

"Just hear me out, Sam." The man held up his hands to show he was unarmed. Christian followed suit and raised his hands as well. It didn't mean they weren't armed. In fact Sam was sure they were armed. If they weren't, they were fools.

The man caught the bartender's eye and made a circular motion around the table, indicating that she should bring drinks for them, and Sam slowly pulled the chair out from the table. He situated the chair equally between the two men, across from them so he could watch them both. Then he sat down. He was aware that his back was to the rest of the room which left him exposed, but it couldn't be helped. He kept his right hand in his pocket, wrapped around his knife.

"Okay. Let's hear what you have to say." Sam sat slightly forward in his chair, his legs bent underneath him, ready to spring at the first hint of trouble from either of the men.

The bartender brought their drinks, and the older man paid for the beers. He waited for her to leave before he began. "I'm Samuel Campbell. Mary Campbell was my daughter." Samuel appeared to search Sam's face for a reaction, but Sam didn't give him one. "Your mother named you after me."

Sam still refused to show any reaction.

"I died thirty-eight years ago, but a few weeks ago something brought me back down to earth—brought me back to life."

"And what brought you back?"

"I figure it was the same thing that brought you back up from Hell."

Sam continued to watch Samuel intently. "You came back from Heaven?"

Samuel nodded. "I've been searching for you. I knew you were here."

"How? How could you know I was here?"

"Instinct? I'm sure finding you is one of the reasons I was brought back."

Sam glanced at Christian. "He back from the dead too?"

Christian had the nerve to laugh, a small tentative laugh that died quickly when Sam nailed him with a dark glare.

"This is your cousin, Christian Campbell, and he's _not_ back from the dead." Samuel's voice was calm and soft, as if he were trying to sooth a wild animal. "We're the only two, Sam. Just you and me."

"Why?"

"You tell me." Samuel sighed. "Look, I have no clue, but whatever it is, it's about hunting. I was brought back to get the clan together and hunt." Samuel looked deep into Sam's eyes. "I was brought back to find you and bring you into the clan with us."

"What clan?"

"The Campbells." Samuel smiled with pride. "Son, you have no idea. You're part of a clan of hunters that go back so far—there were Campbells hacking off the heads of vampires on the Mayflower."

Sam finally gave the man a thoughtful look and Samuel looked delighted. "That's right Sam. You have family. We're your family and family hunts together. Matter of fact, we're hunting the same demon you're after." Samuel had a tight little smile and his beady, blue eyes sparkled. He even gave Sam a tiny little wink that in another life might have helped Sam to believe him, but trust was all but impossible for a soulless man.

"We can help you grab this demon." Samuel's head tilted just slightly.

_Here it comes,_ thought Sam, _the hook_.

"You do want to capture him, don't you? Ask him a few questions? See if he knows anything?"

"Don't want any help. Don't need it…" Sam's voice trailed off and he thought for a long moment before he finally acknowledged the man by name. "...Samuel." He stood, leaving his beer untouched and walked back to the bar.

* * *

It was close to closing time, and Samuel and Christian left with the rest of the night's crowd. The bartender was wiping down the bar, smiling and calling good-bye to customers as they left. She glanced up at Sam, and he nodded to her, giving her a little smile, enough that he knew it would bring out his dimples. The look he gave her was unmistakable, and he saw the interest in her eyes.

He stayed after everyone else was gone and helped her close up the bar, carrying trash and empty boxes out the back door into the alley. He brought in extra boxes of liquor from the storeroom, got a good idea of the layout of the backrooms and the back entrance to the pub.

When he left to go back to his motel, she went with him. She told him she didn't usually do this. He told her it was okay, that he didn't usually do this either. He gazed into her soft brown eyes and watched them flutter closed as his lips pressed against hers. He ran his tongue along her lips until she parted them and gave him entrance. She tasted like liquor and smoke and passion. He ran his hands through her hair and over her body. She hummed and purred and finally screamed her pleasure in the night before she drifted to sleep in an orgasmic haze.

* * *

Sam closed his laptop and wandered over to the window. After a few hours online—since he didn't sleep anyway—he found another job just a few towns over. He pulled the drapes aside and gazed out on the predawn darkness. The rain dampened the pavement, and an ancient white paneled van waited next to his Charger, just outside the door. He had a gut feeling that the van belonged to Samuel. He was being followed. Apparently, Samuel would not give up easily.

Sam was restless. He wanted to finish up this hunt tonight and move on to the next one. His eyes wandered over to the woman sleeping in his bed. Her back was turned toward him. She was naked—the covers lying just across her hips. He'd enjoyed her body last night.

Sam didn't remember what sex was like before. He remembered how. That wasn't a problem. But what sex felt like when he cared, when there was an emotional connection of some kind—love, or even like—those feeling eluded him. He remembered telling Jess he loved her, but he didn't remember how it felt. He remembered he lived with her for a year, planned to marry her, wanted to live with her forever, cried when she died, dreamed about her for months after, but he couldn't imagine why.

There was still time before dawn, time before the rest of the world would wake. Sam stripped and got into bed, pulling Gloria against his chest, spooning her close, feeling her smooth warm skin as he traced his hands down her back, around her waist, and up to cradle a breast in each hand. He squeezed and rolled the nipples lightly between his thumbs and forefingers before he pinched and felt the sparks flow through her body.

"Mmm." She began to stir, waking and rolling her hips back against him. Her eyes opened in tiny slits, taking in the still-dark room. "It's early..." She snuggled deeper into the pillow.

Sam nuzzled into her hair, burrowing his way down to the skin of her neck. His hard wet tongue snaked along the sensitive skin below her ear, his hot moist breath whispered across her skin. "I want your body."

One large hand splayed across her soft skin, down across her belly, fingers nestling in the course dark curls surrounding her center. She was beginning to wake to the warm flood of desire flowing through her. Her legs spread, inviting him in, and he slipped a long finger through her lips and into the wetness pulsing inside her. "So hot for me..." He laughed—a low, quiet growl.

Sam rose up and straddled her, hovering over her. Licks and kisses and nipping bites peppered her skin as he worked his way slowly down her body. The sweet smell of perfume clouded what he wanted to find. He moved lower, across her stomach, inhaling the smell of passion and sweat, dipping his tongue into her naval. He moved lower still; there it was, the scent of woman, musky, sexy—her pungent scent, his own dark musk lingering on her. Sam opened his mouth and took in a deep breath, tasting her scent on his tongue.

Her hands slid down her body, gently touching the trail he blazed. His graceful hands grazed across her sensitive, begging core and he could feel her burning as she lost the breath she was holding in a long low moan. He plunged two long fingers into her wet depths, his dark laugh rumbling gently in his chest as he snaked his tongue across the most sensitive part of her. His soft, velvet tongue swirled around her while his fingers found her sweet spot and pushed her pulsing clit up into his waiting mouth.

He hummed his encouragement, lapping his tongue to the rhythm of her pulsing body. Sam could feel the sensations coursing through her. He could feel her feet pressing hard into the bed, her hands tightening in his hair. She bolted against him, tried to twist away as he drove her relentlessly closer and closer, then stilled—keeping her teetering on the edge.

"Oh." She cried out. "Oh, God! Please!"

He pushed her harder into the bed as she bucked against him. He held her hips flat against the bed with his free hand—splaying his large palm low across her belly and held her still. He heard her deep gasps. His long fingers played across the sensitive places inside her, and his lips and tongue soothed and sucked her clit as if he could pull her very soul from her. As she rose up through her powerful climax, it rocked her soul, and Sam felt it all—all of her laid bare, all of her open to him. He smelled it, tasted it—pleasure, lust, need, all mixed into a powerful drug pouring out of her and into him—all the things his soulless self couldn't feel.

Afterward, he hovered above her and rocked himself to come, sheathed deep in her warmth—her oversensitive body writhing beneath him. He watched the bliss on her face and savored all the intense feelings he drained from her.

* * *

People came and went all evening to and from the little bar in Sandusky. But no one saw him. Hidden in a shadow at the entrance of the alley, his tall, dark frame was invisible—motionless and silent. Sam watched as the same bartender from last night arrived to start her shift. He watched, listened and waited for the demon.

Hours passed as he stood in the shadows. The muscles in his legs and shoulders ached and begged to be moving, but Sam ignored the pain and remained motionless. People began to leave the bar, one by one and in couples, hand in hand or huddled together, stumbling and giggling. Sam watched them all, looking for anything that might hint at the demon he hunted. But nothing indicated his prey.

Silence fell around him; there was only the hum of the streetlights. The _"__OPEN" _sign in the window clicked off. The same woman would be cleaning and closing the bar, going through the same routine as last night. Sam didn't care about the night before, didn't care to remember her soft, brown eyes and raven-black hair. He didn't care that her body was the soft, warm body he'd enjoyed in the night.

He waited. Now that it was closing time, he was even more alert, and he didn't wait in vain. There was movement in the alley, way in the back near the entrance to the bar. It was an almost imperceptible movement, but Sam saw it, just in the corner of his eye. He began to slip silently from shadow to shadow slowly down the alley, careful to clear each dark corner behind dumpsters and trash as he went. When he reached the end, the alley was clear but the back door to the bar was ajar.

Sam eased the door open and glanced down at the threshold before he stepped over. _Sulfur. _Bright yellow—the putrid scent filled Sam's nostrils. His eyes narrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line. He'd found his prey and he saw the demon slip around a corner into the storeroom.

Sam bolted behind the demon, determined to catch up. He rounded the corner, hot on the demon's heels, and he came face to face with it. "I'm gonna send your ass straight back to Hell!" he growled.

"I don't think so." The demon smirked. He was backed up against the wall, holding the bartender against him, a human shield.

"You're not getting away from here." Sam glanced upward, and the demon's red eyes followed his gaze to the devil's trap Sam had drawn on the ceiling when he helped close up the night before. The demon snarled at Sam, and Sam smirked. "I got you now."

"You won't do anything, or I'll kill her." The demon jerked the woman hard against him, a knife pressed against her throat.

"Sam?" He heard her pleading voice, briefly noticed the fear in her eyes and the flicker of hope.

He drew his gun, leveled it at her gut and shot, still grinning at the demon. "There goes your leverage."

Sam advanced on the demon, not looking at the woman [and] keeping his eyes on the demon. The demon raised his shocked and frightened eyes to Sam as he dropped the woman's dying body to the floor.

"What do you know about me?" Sam leveled his gun at the demon.

"Nothing." The demon shook.

Sam shot a kneecap. "What do you know? Who brought me back? Was it a demon?" He shot the other kneecap and the demon fell to the floor, still caught in the devil's trap.

"Nothing... I don't know anything..."

Sam pulled a flask of holy water out of his pocket and splashed it on the demon's face.

When the liquid hit the demon's face, it burned, and white curls of smoke rolled up into the air from the wounds. The demon screamed in pain. "I don't know!"

"Exorcizamus te, omnimundus..." Sam began the exorcism.

The demon twisted and writhed.

Sam knew that pulling demons out of their meat suits was painful to them and that the terror they felt at going back to Hell was overwhelming. "Spiritus, omnis satanica potestas..." Sam glared at the demon as he spoke the words, a hateful grin on his face. Part of him liked to watch this.

"I can't... I don't know," the demon whined.

"...omnis incursio infernalis adversii. Omnis congregatio."

"Pennsylvania!" The demon screamed. "I was supposed to lead you to Pennsylvania."

"For what? What's in Pennsylvania?" Sam grabbed the demon's hair, yanking back his head so that he could look into those deep black eyes. Even more so, Sam wanted the demon to see the anger and determination in his eyes.

"I don't know. I just know what I was supposed to do."

"Not good enough. What else?" Sam waited but the demon only whined. "Et secta diabolica. Ergo, graco maledicte..."

The demon writhed and screamed in pain. "Whatever it is, it's in Pennsylvania."

"...ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire. Te rogamus."

The demon hissed his last stinging remark at Sam. "I'll have a piece of your soul in Hell!"

"Audi nos." With the last words of the exorcism out of Sam's mouth, a long billow of smoke poured out of the mouth of the dead "meat suit" as the demon was dispatched back to his home, deep in the bowels of Hell.

Sam stood between the two dead bodies—the bartender, who'd bled out on the floor at his feet and the unknown man, who'd been dead for weeks. Sam put the flask of holy water in his pocket, engaged the safety on his gun and slipped it in his jeans, nestled comfortably in the small of his back.

"Sam!" Samuel ran into the storeroom followed by Christian. Samuel was breathless, sucking in lungfuls of air. "We heard gunshots." Samuel's gaze dropped to the two bodies and he looked back up at Sam. "The demon?"

"Sent him back to Hell."

"I thought you wanted to interrogate him."

"I interrogated him, and then I exorcised him."

Samuel's gaze fell on the woman. "There were two of 'em?"

"No. She got in the way." Sam watched as Samuel's face took on a strange emotion that Sam couldn't quite figure out.

"You killed her?" Samuel questioned. He glanced at Christian, who looked away in silence.

"Collateral damage." Sam shrugged. "It couldn't be helped."

Samuel sighed as he looked down at the bodies. "We'll help you get this cleaned up. Then I want you to come with us, back to Pennsylvania. We need you in the clan."

_Pensylvania?_ Sam nodded to Samuel. It looked like he was about to meet the Campbell clan.

_**TBC**_


	4. Queen of DaimondsQueen of Hearts

_Many thanks to Sam's Folly. You encourage me, keep me real and do the hard job of editing. You are an awesome beta!  
__Also thanks to IonianThunder for some great ideas and encouragement.  
__Any mistakes are my own ('cause I can't stop adding and tweaking).  
__Many, many thanks to everyone who commented and alerted my story.  
Anything you recognized belongs to its owner... SPN, Kripke, CW and the Eagles._

* * *

**Family Secrets: Prequel – The Beginning – Chapter Four**

_**Don't you draw the queen of diamonds, boy.  
She'll beat you if she's able.  
You know, the queen of hearts is always your best bet. **_

* * *

Alta Campbell didn't know what she expected from Samuel, but she didn't expect him to come with a sidekick—a very large sidekick. The man was gigantic, six foot five at least with massive shoulders, long, muscular arms and hands the size of dinner plates. He had long, dark hair and dark eyes, but most disturbing was the dark, quiet way he was always watching—assessing everyone. There was something about him that Alta just didn't trust. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. Something was just a little off.

Samuel, on the other hand, was open and invited her questions. That was something else she didn't expect.

"Well, hell. You wouldn't be a Campbell if you weren't suspicious." Samuel smiled at her. His smile didn't do much to alleviate her qualms about him.

Alta was more than a little cautious. "I have a hard time wrapping my head around this whole coming-back-from-Heaven thing. It doesn't seem possible."

"I understand. All I ask is that you give me a chance." Samuel gazed thoughtfully at her. "You know, you remind me of my daughter. She was a blond-haired, blue-eyed Campbell, but it's not your looks. It's more your straight-forward, no-nonsense attitude."

The two of them were in Samuel's office, and he was seated behind his desk, looking up at her as she stood in front of him. The giant he'd brought with him stayed behind in the common room with Christian and the other cousins. "You're smart. Got that good hunter's common sense, like Mary had. It'd be hard to fool you."

Alta knew when she was being conned. "Well, great. Thanks, but that doesn't really address the issue. Why are you here? If you were in Heaven, for _heaven'_s sake…" she rolled her eyes, "...why would you come back down here?"

Samuel leaned forward, elbows on his desk. He looked as if he was going to tell her a secret of great importance. "I didn't _come_ back. I was _brought_ back."

"Well, again, why? Who _brought_ you back? Stop avoiding the question."

Samuel sighed and leaned back in his chair. "The truth is, I don't know. I don't know how or who, but I'm pretty sure I know why."

"Oh, right. You're here to bring the clan together." She didn't know how he managed to get the rest of the clan to swallow this whole thing, but she wouldn't be so easy to fool.

"Can you think of a better reason? Listen, Lucifer walked on this earth. He's back in his cage now, thanks to my grandson, Sam."

"Sam? That giant in the other room is your grandson?" He was more than just a sidekick, and Alta began to think of all the ways that this couldn't possibly be a good thing.

"Yes, Sam Winchester."

"He did battle with Lucifer?" This couldn't possibly be real.

"He did, and he won. He rode Lucifer back down into Hell." Samuel reared back in his chair, puffing out his chest. There was no doubt he was proud.

"Wait. You mean to tell me he was brought back from Hell?" This whole thing was hard to believe in the first place. The only reason she was anywhere near this man was because she trusted Gwyn and Mark, but she was beginning to think this might be a whole new level of stupid. "So, now there's not just one but two resurrections, and a battle with Lucifer himself?"

Samuel raised a placating hand. "I know, I know. It's a lot to swallow."

"You're damn straight!" Alta leaned forward, both hands flat on Samuel's desk. "This sounds like a Greek tragedy."

"These are strange times, Alta. You have to admit it." Samuel's smile and light nature changed. He became intense. He had a hard edge to him, more like a leader. "Things are changing because the devil was here—on earth." Samuel leaned over his desk again, his face so close to Alta's she could feel his breath across her lips. He jabbed his finger on the surface of the desk to make his point. "You've seen it. If you've been hunting, I know you've seen it. More and more monsters are walking around, and there's just us—just the Campbell clan between them and innocent people.

Alta stood straight again, considering Samuel's words.

"I need you and good hunters like you. I need the clan, all of the clan—every one of us." His eyes challenged Alta, piercing hard into her. "I need everyone together and working as a team. If we don't do something, a whole lot of innocent people are gonna die." Samuel made a compelling argument.

Alta had noticed the changes. Vampires and werewolves were popping up everywhere, and demons seemed to be everywhere too. Not only that, but there were new creatures, ones she'd never heard of. In light of the increasing supernatural presence on earth lately, maybe resurrections weren't so unbelievable.

Samuel was very convincing. "Are you with me, Alta?"

How could she argue with a recruitment speech like that?

"I'm with you," she said.

* * *

Dean pulled the Impala into the driveway behind Lisa's Suburban. It needed an oil change, and Dean figured it was the least he could do. He took six quarts of oil and piled them up on a drain pan along with a filter and wrench.

"It's my body!" He heard Ben's shrill voice coming from the back door. "I can do what I want!" Dean didn't hear Lisa's response, but he put down the load he carried and stepped up to the door slowly opening it. Lisa and Ben were squared off at each other. Ben's face was twisted in righteous teenaged wrath. Dean recognized the look from Sam's teen years—fighting and yelling with Dad. Unlike Dad, Lisa's face was patient and calm.

"You're _not_ getting a tattoo, Ben."

"You can't stop me!"

Dean stood at the threshold—uncertain. He was poised to cross a line he wasn't sure he should.

"Ben." Dean kept his voice soft. "Give your mother a break, man."

Ben looked up, surprised to hear Dean call him out on his behavior. Lisa's face was stunned but relieved.

"I..." Ben stuttered.

"Come on, Ben." Dean motioned for Ben to come with him. "I could use your help changing the oil in your mother's car." Ben started toward Dean then hesitated glancing at his mom.

"Go ahead." She smiled at Dean, thankful for the help.

"Um... You wanna change into something you can get grungy?"

Ben ran upstairs, and Dean looked at Lisa. "I'm sorry if I butted in. I don't mean to... overstep."

"It's fine." Lisa sighed and Dean thought he could sense some tiredness in her. He hoped he wasn't the cause of any of her stress. "I could use the help sometimes."

"Yeah... Well, Ben's a good kid... You're a good mother."

"Thanks."

* * *

"You got a tattoo," Ben challenged. They were leaning against the trunk of the Impala, just finished with Ben's first lesson in car maintenance—an oil change.

"Yeah, but I was twenty-eight when I got it and it's strictly for protection. It's an anti-possession tatt," Dean countered. "Don't get me wrong. I don't have anything against body art. It's not my thing, but I've seen some mighty fine tattoos. This one chick had a tatt that..." Dean forced his mind back to the point. "Anyway, all I'm saying is you shouldn't be stressing your mom out like that. When you're old enough, you can do what you think is best, but I just hate to see you yelling at your mom, trying to bully her into something she's not ready to let you do. She loves you. She's only doing what she thinks is best for now."

"As if," Ben snorted. "I couldn't bully mom into anything. She's not as soft as you think."

"I'm beginning to see that."

"How come you only have the one tatt?"

"I just never had the time or the cash." Dean wondered what his dad would have thought of spending money on body art. He and Sam grew up in yard sale and Good Will clothes, cheap motels and greasy diners paid for with credit card fraud and poker winnings. Dean sighed. "Any extra money we had was used to buy weapons and ammo, and extra time was spent on training."

"I'm thirteen, dude. I don't use ammo." Ben's smirk quickly changed to a hopeful grin. "Unless you want to teach me…"

"Yeah, well, that's kinda my point. You're thirteen and you don't need ammo." Dean sighed. Ben's life was so different. He _didn't_ need ammo, _didn't_ need to train. He had spare time and spare cash. Ben was luckier than he could understand. "Let your mom be your mom, and be glad you have one."

Dean pushed himself away from the car and turned, fishing his keys out of his pocket. "I've got something for you." He waved Ben off the car and opened the trunk. He rummaged around in his duffel until he drew out a silver pendant hanging from a black cord. It was a pentagram that looked exactly like Dean's tattoo. "It's an anti-possession charm. You want it?"

"Sure." Ben took the necklace and slipped it around his neck. "Cool!"

"Come on. We might as well change the oil in the Impala while we're already dirty."

* * *

Sam didn't much care for the Campbell compound. It was an old converted factory, and it smelled of sweat and oil and rusting, decaying machinery. Worse than that were the smells of the many animals that had taken refuge over the years and made a home in the abandoned building. No amount of spraying and cleaning could get the scent out of this building and out of Sam's nose.

He didn't like all the questions his new family asked. It seemed that Samuel had talked, and they all knew too much already. Sam preferred to remain as anonymous as possible, but it wouldn't be possible here. Samuel wore his resurrection like a crown, but then why wouldn't he? Samuel was pulled back from Heaven. Sam didn't like the fact that they all knew he was pulled back from Hell, and they _would not_ stop asking questions about it.

Of all the Campbells, Sam liked Christian least. He was an annoying little shit that tried too hard to be a friend. Somewhere underneath that cocky, ingratiating attitude, the man had a bone to pick. Sam was sure of it. He could smell the deceit just under the surface. A man like that was dangerous. Sam figured that was the reason Samuel seemed to have Christian tucked up under him all the time—to keep a close eye on him.

The rest of the clan wasn't so bad. Mark was young, and he was quiet. He didn't ask a lot of questions, but he watched. He was alert to everything around him. Sam could appreciate that about Mark. He just needed to figure out what was going on in Mark's thoughtful head.

Gwyn and several of the other cousins appeared to be competent hunters, but only time would tell. Their true talent would show on an actual hunt. Once Sam hunted with them, he would decide whether or not he wanted to be part of this clan.

After an hour of meeting and mingling with his cousins, Sam was finished. He didn't feel the need to impress or be impressed. He didn't like answering—or, rather, avoiding—their questions. He didn't want to talk about past hunts or about Lucifer or Hell, and he didn't like pretending to be interested in who's who in the clan. He was anxious—restless to be out hunting or at least looking for a hunt.

"Sam?" Samuel greeted him with a slap on the back, turning him to face the woman Samuel had been talking with for so long. "Alta Campbell, meet Sam Winchester." He introduced the two and addressed Sam. "Alta's your…let me see…" Samuel's face scrunched up, and he gazed off into nothing, his finger wagging back and forth like he was doing math in his head. "…third, maybe fourth cousin? There's probably some 'removeds' in there somewhere too."

"Sam?" Alta nodded, a hint of a nervous smile on her face.

"Alta?" Sam acknowledged. She was a tiny little thing, but Sam could sense the strength and courage of a hunter in her. There was something about her, the way she looked at him, assessing him. She didn't trust him. He could feel it—smell it. It wasn't fear, just a healthy suspicion. Sam could appreciate that. She was right to be suspicious.

He also appreciated the fact that she didn't assault him with a bevy of questions. There was no digging for juicy tidbits about Lucifer and Hell, no looks of sympathy or horror. He'd rather her be suspicious than gushing with sympathy.

Then again, maybe there was a hint of something more. He smiled at her, making sure that his dimples showed, and his look was suggestive. She showed no interest in him, and Sam dismissed Alta from his thoughts. He would wait and see if she was a good hunter.

"Excuse me." Sam turned from Alta to Samuel. "It was a long trip. I'm kinda tired, so I'm heading into town to find a room. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Wait." Samuel's voice had just an edge of pleading. "I thought…you can stay here."

"I prefer to have my own place."

"Well, we're leaving early in the morning to go to northern Michigan."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Why? What's in Michigan?"

"A werewolf. Mark did the research. It looks like the thing is holed up in a forest." Samuel's eyes seemed to light up now that he had Sam's attention. "Hikers and campers go missing on the full moon, and their bodies are found later, disemboweled."

"Hearts missing?" queried Alta.

Sam's eyes darted toward her. _Same question I would ask_, he thought. She gave him a look, but he couldn't quite figure what she was thinking.

"You got it." Samuel grinned. "Classic werewolf signs."

"Full moon's tomorrow night," Sam said.

"Exactly," Samuel answered. "So why don't you stay here? I'm going to get together a crew and pack up to leave by five a.m."

"Why do you need a crew to hunt one werewolf?" Sam asked.

"It's hiding out in a forest. Its range is pretty big."

Sam continued to look at Samuel, uncomprehending. How many times had he hunted werewolves, windegos, ghosts—any number of creatures—with just Dean and him? The idea of a crew was a little foreign to Sam.

"There's a lot of land to cover. With a crew of maybe ten, we can split up and cover more ground."

"Fine. You get your crew together. I'm already packed. I'll be here at five a.m."

Sam turned from Samuel to Alta. "Will you be hunting with us tomorrow?" He wanted to know just how good a hunter this little woman was.

Alta glanced at Samuel and then back to Sam. "Yes, of course."

Sam smiled at her and then turned and left. She watched his determined steps, his broad shoulders-his head held high and proud as he walked across the room to the exit. Some emotion deep inside her stirred, but she stomped it out before she could realize what it was.

* * *

"I can't quite figure out what the hell's up with him," Alta told Gwyn. They were huddled in a corner of the common room near the coffeemaker.

"Well, he didn't have a lot to say. Whatever his story is, he plays it close to the chest." Gwyn grinned at Alta. "Tall, dark and mysterious. What a combination."

"Please." Alta rolled her eyes.

"Don't tell me you don't think he's one long, cool drink of water." Gwyn fanned herself with her hand.

"He's good-looking; I'll give him that much." Alta shrugged. "But I'm not sure if I think he's shy or just rude as hell." Alta was also beginning to wonder just exactly what it was between Samuel and his grandson. Samuel was supposed to be leading the clan, but Sam didn't seem very willing to be led.

* * *

Samuel sat in the passenger seat of his van, continuously peering out at the side mirror, glaring at the black Charger that followed them. Sam was difficult. He wouldn't stay at the compound. He wouldn't ride with the rest of the clan in the van. Samuel knew he didn't have Sam's trust yet, and he was far from having him under control. He gritted his teeth for the hundredth time. He needed to get Sam to trust him. Crowley would be showing up soon. Samuel could feel it in his bones and knew that Crowley would want to see progress.

Christian cleared his throat. "It's probably time to stop for a bite to eat and a bathroom break." His hands flexed around the steering wheel, and he glanced at Samuel. "Need gas too."

"Yeah. See what's at the next stop." Samuel ground out the words as he continued to stare at his uncooperative grandson. He would have to find a way to get Sam under control soon.

"Are you worried about the hunt? Don't be. I picked out a good crew, Samuel. I know my cousins. We'll get this werewolf."

"I know we will." Samuel sighed. "I'm not worried about the hunt. Just thinking."

* * *

When they finally reached the werewolf's hunting grounds, Christian found a small side road, not much more than a large path to pull off of the main road and into the forest—enough for the van and Sam's car not to be seen. Seven hunters climbed out of the back of Samuel's van. Alta was glad to be out of the cramped quarters, finally able to stretch her legs. She watched as Sam got out of his car and headed around to the trunk to arm himself. She waited with the rest of the hunters as Samuel and Christian handed out weapons from the clan's common cache.

Alta wondered that Sam followed behind the van, alone in his very nice, sleek, black, roomy Dodge Charger, and didn't offer for anyone to ride with him. She would have liked to ride comfortably in a car rather than huddled en masse in the back of Samuel's van, but she would never ask. Alta was beginning to come to the conclusion that Sam Winchester was an arrogant ass.

Samuel armed and paired off his hunters to go in separate groups and fan out across the forest. Each group had a marksman, armed with a rifle and a tracker.

Samuel sent Donnie as tracker with his wife Moreene as marksman to the northern edge of the forest.

He sent Mark with Sophia, another young hunter, and Gwyn. Mark was both tracker and marksman, while Gwyn had the most experience in the group. They went into the northern central part of the forest

Samuel took Christian and Sam with him—Christian as marksman and Sam as tracker—to the southern central part of the forest.

Alta was an expert tracker, and Samuel paired her with Richard as marksman. They went to the southern edge. Alta was not pleased. She'd never hunted with Richard and she didn't trust him. Richard was Christian's brother and there was no love lost between Alta and Christian's family. She wanted to protest about being paired with him, but she also wanted to prove her worth to the new clan leader.

This hunt was a time of testing, and Alta understood that very well. The clan would be testing its new leader, but that new leader would be testing his clan as well. The first few hunts would determine who he trusted as his best hunters and who would be doing grunt work back at the compound. If she was going to hunt with the clan—with Samuel—she wanted to be one of his best hunters. She would not start off by complaining or questioning his plan.

Alta crouched low, searching for signs as she entered the woods. It was late in the evening, not quite midnight. The night was cloudless, and it gave the hunters an advantage, with the full moon making vision almost as clear as day. It was a different story as they entered the woods and lost much of the moonlight to the covering trees. Still, it was early spring. The leaves weren't as full and didn't block out as much light as they would later in the summer.

Alta was searching for human foot prints, trampled leaves, broken twigs and branches that would indicate that the werewolf had passed here. Contrary to the Hollywood myth, werewolves didn't actually turn into wolves. They remained human but developed superhuman strength and wolflike attributes. They grew long sharp claws that were able to rip through flesh and bone. Their teeth grew long, thick and sharp, curving inward in order tear through raw meat. They developed the keen eyesight and hearing, as well as the powerful sense of smell, of wild wolves. Werewolves were the perfect predator.

Alta's hand trembled as she gently touched a small, broken branch of a sapling. Her eyes scanned the area to find the treaded underbrush leading off into the woods. This could be it.

She signaled Richard to let him know she'd found a trail and that they needed to be cautious and quiet, and then she set off deeper into the woods.

They followed the trail for twenty minutes before Alta spotted a large boulder ahead. It rose up from the floor of the forest about seven feet and offered a good vantage point to scan ahead. She motioned for Richard, and when they reached the boulder, they climbed to the top.

Alta scanned ahead and saw a small clearing. The werewolf was crouched near the edge closest to them, clearly feeding on his prey. He was nearly three-hundred meters ahead, well within range of the rifle Richard carried. Alta glanced up to see Richard sighting the creature through the rifle's scope.

_Wait__.__ Wait for a good shot._ Alta watched, waiting for the creature to stand. Richard had to make a killing shot. A silver bullet to the heart was the only shot that would kill the werewolf. The creature stood, seeming to sense them—either smelling or hearing them. _Not yet. Not yet._ Alta tensed. Her eyes were dead on the werewolf when she heard Richard's shot ring out.

_Damn it! _Alta knew there was no way the shot could pierce the creature's heart. The angle was wrong. Now it was a wounded, angry werewolf who knew he was being hunted. _Damn, damn, damn!_ Alta jumped to the ground and took off in a full-out run, expecting Richard to follow her lead. They had no hope of catching a werewolf, but if it was wounded badly enough they just might be able to catch up to it—close enough to use a pistol.

Alta's feet pounded the ground, trampling leaves and underbrush as she ran. Saplings and small branches smacked against her denim-clad legs. She kept the werewolf in her sight as she ran. It was slow, for a werewolf, apparently wounded badly. Her legs began to burn with the effort of maintaining the punishing pace, but she pushed through it. She was gaining on the werewolf, and she watched as it ducked behind the trunk of a huge tree.

Alta pulled her pistol from its holster as she approached the tree. She swung around the trunk, pistol clutched in both hands, ready to aim and fire. The werewolf was gone. She turned to look behind her, back down the way she'd just come. Richard was nowhere in sight. She thought Richard was behind her. He was supposed to stay with her. _Shit! Where's Richard?_

Alta felt her stomach sink. She was in the middle of the forest, hot on the trail of a wounded werewolf, and she was alone. She had no back up. This was not good. She stared at the empty trail where her backup should be. _Son of a bitch! _Maybe she should go back and find Richard, but then she would certainly lose the werewolf.

Suddenly, she heard the werewolf behind her. She quickly turned to face it and fire, but her foot caught on a root that was sticking up out of the ground. Pain pulsed up from her ankle, and her leg buckled beneath her. She saw the creature rear up to strike her. She struggled to aim her pistol as she fell. A second rifle shot rang out across the forest, and Alta saw the red stain of blood seep out across the werewolf's chest. It screamed and lunged toward her, knocking her the rest of the way to the ground with a heavy arm.

Alta lay on the ground, stunned and staring up through the pale, spring-green leaves of the trees. Moonlight streamed into her eyes as she breathed in the night air. A face swam above her. It was Samuel.

"Hey, girl." Samuel's voice was soft, and he peered down into her eyes. He looked worried. "You with me?"

"Yeah. I'm…" Alta took a deep breath. "I'm okay."

"You got the wind knocked out of you. That werewolf whacked you good." Samuel's face relaxed a bit.

Alta could see Sam standing above Samuel. He was gazing down at her, and she thought there was something in his eyes—something besides the dead, cold arrogance she'd seen back at the compound. _Concern?_ It was hard to tell. He bent down and reached out his hand to help her up.

Alta grabbed his hand, but when she tried to stand, pain shot through her ankle. She gave way, falling back to the ground. "My ankle." She winced. "I think I hurt my ankle."

"We need to get you back to the van. There's a first aid kit—"

"I got her," Sam said, cutting Samuel off. "I can carry her out." He bent down. "Come on. I got ya." He reached one arm out to her and she grabbed his shoulders while he slipped his other arm under her knees. He scooped her up and turned to Samuel. "Finish up here. I'll take care of her."

As Sam carried her out of the woods, Alta glanced back over Sam's shoulder and saw Samuel staring after them. Christian and Richard were behind him pulling the dead body of the werewolf up to carry it out of the woods. They would burn it before they left to return home, and it would take them the rest of the night.

She felt like a child in Sam's big arms. He pulled her in close to his broad chest. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"It hurts. Bad." She was grateful when he picked up his pace.

He didn't stop at the van, but took her directly to his car. "I have supplies," he said. He sat her in the passenger's seat, and then went to the trunk coming back with a first aid kit. He knelt in front of her, picked up her foot and began to unlace her boot.

"I can get that," she told him, but when she reached down to pull off her boot, he pushed her hands away.

"Just relax." He tried to pull the boot free of her foot.

She winced, hissing as she sucked in a lungful of air through her clenched teeth.

"It's swollen already." He tossed the first aid kit in her lap. "There are pain pills in there and a bottle of water behind you, in the console." He started to ease her boot off again. "Hang on. We need to get this off."

She expected him to be rough, but he was surprisingly gentle as he examined her ankle, touching the swollen flesh softly.

"This is swelling fast. We need to get ice on it."

Sam pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and punched in some numbers. "I'm taking her out of here. She needs attention fast."

Alta watched as he listened. His forehead wrinkled and his lips narrowed impatiently.

"No. It's swelling fast. We need to leave now." His face twisted in agitation as he listened to the response she assumed was from Samuel.

"We can't wait. We're leaving now. I can get her to help faster in my car. We'll see you back at the compound." He cut off the call and stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

Sam looked at her swollen ankle thoughtfully, finally letting out a deep breath. "Alta, we need to get this x-rayed. You might have broken something. I'll take you to the nearest ER."

"No. Just get me home."

"Alta, I think—"

"There's a doctor in town," she said, cutting him off. "Dr. Carson. He takes care of hunters for small stuff like this. He keeps everything nice and quiet. Just get me back home and get me to Dr. Carson."

"All right. Let's go." Sam tried to help her turn and get her feet into the car, but she knocked his hands away.

"I'm not helpless." She ground out the words.

He tossed her boot and sock onto the floor next to her feet and closed the door. Then he quickly got them on the road and heading toward civilization.

"You ever hunt with Richard before?" Sam asked.

_Okay, random._ Alta wondered where he was going with this. "No. Where the hell was Richard?" Alta shifted in her seat. Her foot was throbbing.

"Exactly. We got to you long before he did. You should have been together. What happened?"

"When Richard took the shot, I knew it was a bad one. He didn't have the right angle for a clear shot to the heart, but the werewolf was wounded, so I took off after it."

"You thought you could outrun a werewolf?" Sam eyed her quizzically.

"It was wounded," Alta shot back at him. "I thought if the wound slowed it down enough, I could get close enough to get a killing shot with my pistol." She wasn't sure why she had to explain herself to him, but she did anyway. "I lost the damn thing when it ducked behind a tree. That's when I realized Richard wasn't with me."

"Either he set you up or he's a damn sorry hunter."

"You want my opinion?" She huffed. "He's a damn sorry hunter, but I wouldn't rule out the other option either."

"Is that what it's like in your clan?" Sam asked.

Alta took offense at this newcomer judging her family. In fact, it seemed that everything he said pissed her off. "For most of us, no. We're good hunters, Sam, and we're family." She winced again and let out a low moan. The pain was getting worse.

"How many of those pain pills did you take?"

"One."

"Take another."

She glared at him. "You sure are bossy."

He took a deep breath. "I don't mean to be." His eyes darted toward her and then back to the road. "You know what I saw tonight?"

Alta was swallowing down a second pill because, _damn,_ her ankle was killing her. "What?"

"I saw a sorry hunter who made a stupid shot. Then, that sorry hunter let his partner go after a wounded werewolf and didn't have the guts to back her up. I also saw a very brave hunter run down a wounded werewolf. If you'd had some decent backup, it would have been a good idea."

"You weren't there." Alta felt an irrational urge to argue with Sam. He was right, and he was defending her, but something in her wanted to bring his egotistical ass down a notch or two.

Sam snorted. "Am I wrong?"

"No. You're just arrogant as hell." The first pain pill was beginning to work on her and she wasn't really thinking about what she was saying.

Sam laughed. "You are a brave little thing."

"Don't laugh at me! I'm not little! You're just a giant."

Sam laughed again. "I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you, and I don't mean to be arrogant."

"Well, damn, Sam." That first pain pill was really beginning to kick in. "That's the first time I've seen you laugh. S'kina pretty." She felt a little dizzy, but the pain in her ankle eased up. "Oh, m'ankle feels better."

"Good." Sam pulled into the first Gas 'n' Sip he came to. He ran into the store and came back with some ice and a fresh bottle of water.

"Drink some of this while I gas up." He handed her the water.

After he filled the tank, he lifted her out of the front seat and laid her on the back seat. He propped her foot up on a duffel and packed ice around it. "Just sleep. I'll get us home as quickly as I can."

"'Kay." The last thing Alta remembered was a blanket being tucked around her.

* * *

By the time Sam pulled out of the Gas 'n' Sip, Alta was out cold in the back seat. Soon the second pain pill would kick in, and she would be out for a while—maybe not quite long enough to get all the way back to Pennsylvania, but at least she wouldn't be in pain for most of the trip.

Sam glanced at her in his rearview mirror. She was the first person he'd met since he got back topside that wasn't afraid of him. Sam intimidated people. Sometimes it was unintentional, but he often did it on purpose to get what he wanted. Sometimes he wanted information, sometimes a win at a poker game. Most often, he just didn't want to be bothered.

Alta was a different story. She wasn't intimidated by him. She was fearless and a good hunter. He was beginning to think that he could hunt with this woman. She would be good backup. Maybe hunting with the clan was a good idea after all.

_**TBC**_


	5. Every Rose has its Thorn

**Thanks to my incredible beta Sam's Folly. What would I do without you?  
Any mistakes you find here are mine, and anything you recognize belongs to its owner/creator, SPN, Kripke, Poison. Alta Campbell belongs to me.  
Thanks to everyone who follows this story, and Special Thank You to those who comment.**

* * *

**Family Secrets – Prequel – Chapter Five**

_**Every rose has its thorn.**_

* * *

Alta's mind was hazy. She was hot, and she threw off the blanket that was tucked around her. Her eyes burned, her head hurt, and she had the worst case of "cotton mouth" she'd ever had. When she sat up and dropped her feet to the floor, she let out a loud moan. The pain that shot through her ankle reminded her of why she was in the back seat of Sam's car.

She didn't have much time to think about the situation before Sam opened the door, looked in, and thrust a fresh, cold bottle of water at her. His long arm reached all the way across the back seat of the car to her with ease. "Thirsty?"

"Oh god, yeah." She took the water and gulped down several large swallows. The cold liquid felt so good in her hot, dry mouth that a small moan of pleasure escaped her lips. Alta's eyes focused on Sam's face, and she noticed his self-satisfied little grin. "Thanks," she said.

"Here." He handed her one of his large socks. "This should fit over your foot."

She looked down at her feet. Her right foot was bare, and her ankle was swollen.

"Can you wiggle your toes?" Sam watched as she moved all her toes, but she winced with the effort. "Good." He reached into the car and gently pinched her big toe. They both watched as her toe blanched white between his fingers and then quickly turned pink again when he released it. "Still got circulation in your toes. That's good."

"Yeah." Alta knew battlefield triage as well as any hunter, and she knew exactly what Sam was doing. She knew if the swelling was too severe it could cut off circulation to her toes. If that happened, it would mean an immediate stop at the nearest Emergency Room. She didn't need to lose any toes.

Alta pulled the sock on her foot and hissed in pain when she tried to pull the top over her ankle. She opted to leave the sock crunched down around her heel.

"I gassed up while you were still asleep." Sam was watching her intently, bending down and leaning into the door.

"Where are we?" Alta rubbed a hand across her eyes. The dull ache in her head pounded right behind them.

"Just south of Toledo. We're about half way home."

She could only groan in response.

"You probably feel pretty bad," Sam said.

_Understatement!_ "Yeah. My head hurts worse than my ankle." She groaned again.

"You need to eat something, and then you can have another pain pill. We'll get you some Tylenol, too " Sam grasped her arm. "I'll help you to the bathroom first."

"What?" She brushed his arm off and glared at him. "You're not helping me to the bathroom. I'm not helpless."

"You think you can make it alone?" He stepped away from the door and leaned back against the car.

Alta slipped to the end of the seat and dropped her feet to the ground. She looked down at one booted foot and one swollen, sock-covered foot and dragged in a deep breath. With one hand holding onto the door and the other on the seat beside her, she pushed herself up. When she tried to bear weight on her right foot, the pain was so intense that a wave of nausea swept through her, and she promptly fell back onto the seat.

The pain was agonizing in both her ankle and her head. She dropped her head into her hands and groaned. "I feel like shit."

"Let me see your eyes." Sam bent down and took her chin in his hand, lifting her head so that he could peer into her eyes. As she gazed back, she was a little angry with herself for noticing how intensely beautiful his eyes were.

"Your pupils are equal and reactive to light." His lips pressed together and he nodded. "You're okay. We've got four more hours to go. Let's get you to the bathroom, get you some food and another pain pill in you, and then we can get back on the road."

Alta looked up—_way up—_at Sam. Did he have to be so rational...and so damn tall?

"Come on. There's a restaurant inside this Gas 'n' Sip. We can get breakfast." He bent down and circled his arm around her waist, lifting her to stand on her left foot. "Want me to carry you?"

She wasn't sure if he was joking or threatening. She expected a self-righteous grin from him, but his face showed no emotion at all.

"No, just give me a hand." She limped into the store holding onto Sam, and he guided her to the restroom at the back of the store. Naturally, it was at the back of the store, as far away as possible. He pulled a comb out of his pocket, handed it to her and then opened the door for her.

Once inside the bathroom, Alta managed everything on one foot, clinging onto the wall for support. She felt better after she splashed some cold water on her face and combed her bed-head hair down. She held the comb in front of her, gazing at it. _He thought of a comb, _she thought to herself_. Why would he__ think of a __comb?_ She looked in the mirror. Combing her hair did help her feel better. She really wanted to find fault with something—anything he did. She smacked her lips and ran her tongue across her teeth. _Wish he'd thought of a tooth brush. _

When she stepped out of the bathroom, Sam was waiting. "Better?" he asked. He was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Yeah," she answered.

He helped her into the restaurant section of the store, and she slid into a booth. He sat across from her and when the waitress came, he ordered breakfast for both of them. Alta would have argued with him about his assuming to know what to order for her, but she was hungry, her head hurt too much, and somehow he'd made an excellent choice.

She started to feel better with a little food in her. He'd ordered her a cheese omelet with toast and milk. He had scrambled eggs, a double order of bacon, hash browns, toast, a stack of pancakes and coffee.

She eyed his coffee while he added sugar and cream making it into a rich, sweet, pale brown concoction. She licked her lips. _Coffee,_ she thought. _I need coffee._

"I don't think you need the caffeine. It'll be better if you sleep the rest of the way home." He nudged her milk closer to her.

How the hell did he know what she was thinking?

"That way you won't have to be awake and in pain," he reasoned.

She watched as he sipped the warm, creamy fluid, and she imagined how good it would feel—soothing its way down her dry throat.

He looked at her in that thoughtful way that was becoming familiar and then he caught the waitress' eye and asked for a cup of decaf.

Alta missed the caffeine, but even without it, her milky, sweet decaf helped to sooth her throat, and she finally smiled at him.

"You should prop your foot up." He slid to one side and patted the seat next to him.

She stretched her leg out but she couldn't reach the seat. "I'm afraid my leg's not long enough."

Sam looked pensive for a moment, and then he stretched his left leg out under the table, bracing his foot against the base of her seat. "Put your foot up on my leg."

She stared at him blankly.

"It'll help to have it elevated." He gazed at her, waiting.

It suddenly occurred to her that he wasn't the arrogant ass she thought he was. He had taken care of her, and she was being kind of bitchy. Well, outright bitchy. He wasn't who he appeared to be when she first met him. In the light of day, he didn't seem so dark. His hair was actually more a chestnut-brown, with faint golden highlights. His eyes weren't so dark either. They were a beautiful, bluish hazel with little slivers of gold around the irises.

It was more than just his looks. He didn't seem so tense—so hostile. He wasn't at ease exactly, but he didn't seem to be uncomfortable, either. Idle conversation obviously wasn't his forte. In fact, it didn't seem to be something he practiced at all. He seemed to be all business.

"Eat your breakfast." He broke her out of her thoughts_._ "Have some of my pancakes." He moved his stack of pancakes between them, and put a couple of pieces of his bacon on her plate.

"Thanks." Alta wasn't a big eater, but she did take a forkful of the pancakes after Sam poured a generous helping of syrup over them. "Mm." She swallowed. "I didn't know I was so hungry."

Alta began to relax and stop thinking that she should dislike Sam. Maybe they just got off on the wrong foot.

* * *

Alta's ankle was not broken. It was just a sprain. Keeping it iced and elevated, and staying off of it as much as possible were all the right things to do. All of that was basic first aid, but Alta was grateful to Sam for taking care of her. If he had not done those simple things, the damage could have been much worse.

Sam had taken Alta directly to Dr. Carson when they got back home, and he stayed with her while the doc treated her. X-rays showed no broken bones, and now she had an ace-wrap on her ankle and crutches, with orders to stay off her foot for at least six weeks.

It was two days later, and the swelling was gone. Samuel had called her into his office to debrief. She sat facing his desk with her foot propped up in an extra chair Christian had pulled in front of her. Her crutches leaned against her chair.

Alta didn't appreciate doing this debriefing with Christian in the room, but it seemed that Christian was never out of Samuel's sight, and he was privy to everything that went on in the clan. She couldn't speak freely about Richard in front of Christian. She was surprised Samuel didn't get that. Perhaps this was Samuel's way of making it clear that Christian was his right-hand man, the second in command.

"I'm glad you're better." Samuel gestured to her foot. "How long will you be out?"

"I'll be off my foot for six weeks…ish." She left open the opportunity to come back sooner.

"Well, that's good." Samuel leaned on his desk, like he was reaching out to her—like he was wanting her to tell him something secret. "Tell me how it is that you were facing a werewolf all by your lonesome. That was brave, but it was a risky move. Why didn't you wait for backup?"

Alta was stunned. She glanced at Christian. He sat at the side of Samuel's desk, idly polishing his gun. He gave her a smug look that spoke volumes. Then she looked back to Samuel. He waited for an answer that she already knew he wouldn't believe or accept. She realized that Christian already had his say. Of course Samuel took Richard's side in this. She figured that Richard already had his say as well. She could tell Samuel's mind was made up.

_The bastards set me up! _Alta's mouth fell open. "I…"

Before she could say any more, Sam pushed open the door and walked into Samuel's office. Alta snapped her mouth shut as he strode past her without even a glance in her direction. She wasn't even sure he saw her.

"Sam?" Christian greeted in a low voice. "you should learn to knock."

Sam stared at Christian. Alta could see that Sam had become the same dark man he was when she first saw him—narrowed eyes, mouth pressed into a thin line—hostile. Alta could read Sam's unspoken message to Christian clearly. _Get out. _

Samuel nodded his head toward the door. Christian sighed and stood, throwing the cleaning cloth down on Samuel's desk. He glared at Sam as he passed, and Sam waited until Christian closed the door behind him before he spoke.

Sam didn't remain standing in front of Samuel's desk. He walked around and stood next to Samuel's chair, facing him. Sam's eyes clearly invited Samuel to stand and discuss this eye to eye. "Get rid of Richard."

Alta sat speechless as she watched the exchange between the two men.

"Is that a demand?" Samuel leaned back, looking up at Sam.

"You don't need him. He's worthless."

"He's an experienced hunter. He made a mistake."

Sam pointed at Alta. "That mistake almost lost you a good hunter. Richard is a liability."

Samuel seemed to study Sam for a moment. "Is this about Richard's mistake or is it something else? Did something happen on your trip back here? Do you have feelings for Alta?" Samuel suddenly had a cynical smile on his face.

"No!" Alta found her voice. Samuel's insinuation was a low blow. Anger flared within her and she glared at Samuel. "Nothing happened."

Samuel looked calmly back at her. "Just a question."

She didn't think it was possible, but Sam looked even more hostile. "Alta's the best hunter I've seen in this clan. It would be a shame to lose her because of a weak link like Richard."

Samuel finally stood and squared off to face Sam. "All right. I'll put him on munitions work. Maybe send him on a few routine salt-and-burns."

"I take care of my own munitions and maintain my own weapons cache," Sam said.

"I've noticed," said Samuel.

"Don't think of paring him with me, not even for a routine run." Sam stepped back out of Samuel's space.

Alta couldn't help but be impressed by Sam. He was powerful. Then again, if Sam did battle with Lucifer himself, what's left to fear?

Samuel smiled and clapped Sam on the arm. "I wouldn't waste you on a routine run."

Sam didn't seem to be placated by the gesture and he didn't return the smile. "Don't pair Richard with Alta again either."

"Well, okay then." Samuel's answer was almost childlike.

Sam walked over to Alta. His face was suddenly softer, more open. "I'll walk you out."

She grabbed her crutches and pulled herself up from the chair. Once she got situated, she could walk pretty well by herself.

When they were both outside Samuel's office and the door was closed behind them, Alta turned and faced Sam. "I appreciate what you said in there, and I appreciate all that you did for me. You took care of my ankle and got me home, but I don't need you to fight my battles for me. I'm not helpless."

Sam looked at her, his expression completely calm, unreadable. It was as if the encounter with Samuel never happened. It was infuriating. Sam Winchester was an infuriating man.

"Why exactly did you do that?" Alta railed. "What made you think you had the right to barge in and take over? Do you think I can't take care of myself?" Alta's anger was rising. The longer Sam showed no reaction to her the angrier she became. He's not only infuriating, but he's an arrogant dick!

"I'm beginning to see that you have no trouble taking care of yourself."

"Good!"

"I only wanted to make sure that Samuel didn't lose a good hunter."

"Well, don't do that again."

Alta turned to walk away, but Sam quickly stepped in front of her, his big body blocking her way and effectively hiding her from everyone else in the room. He bent down to be eye to eye with her. "You misunderstand me." His voice was very soft. "I didn't do that for you." He pointed back toward Samuel's office. "I did that for this clan. Samuel needed to get rid of Richard, and I didn't think he'd do it."

"Are you part of this clan now?"

Sam hesitated at her question, his eyes thoughtful. "For now."

"The way it works is, you're either in the clan, or you're not. We haven't been this tight under one leader in more than a generation, but we are tight."

"You'll have to explain that to me." Sam straightened to his full height. "If what I've seen so far is an example of how _tight_ your clan is, I'm surprised you've survived."

It was hardly possible to stomp with crutches and one foot that couldn't bear weight, but Alta made a valiant effort on her way to the door and out of the Campbell compound.

* * *

When Alta finally made it back to her apartment, she was in no better mood than when she left the compound. She slammed her front door so hard the picture she'd hung next to the door fell to the floor with a loud thud and a crack of the glass.

_Damn it!_

Alta wasn't sure why she was so mad. She was usually pretty even-tempered. This whole business with Samuel and Sam and the way the clan was changing had her way off kilter. It didn't help that Christian was apparently the new leader's right hand. Frankly, that was Samuel's first mistake as far as Alta was concerned, but then, when it came to Christian, it was personal with her.

She didn't like the way Sam made her feel. He confused her. Sometimes he was dark and overbearing—she almost felt like he was evil. Then again, he could be caring and patient. He seemed nice enough when he took care of her after the werewolf fiasco. In fact, she'd baited him more than a few times, and he never once lost his temper. She looked down at her sprained foot. He'd done all the right things to take care of her.

Alta made her way into the kitchen and got a bottle of water from the refrigerator. She carried it with her to the living room and placed it on the coffee table so that she could flop on the sofa and prop up her feet. She hated being incapacitated, but if she didn't stay off her ankle, she could re-injure it and be out longer than six weeks.

Her mind wandered back to the afternoon's encounter with Sam. Alta had to admit, he was a power to be reckoned with. Christian couldn't intimidate him. Christian had practically crawled out of the room with his tail between his legs. Alta smiled. She couldn't deny that she liked that.

Sam had stood up to Samuel as well. The power that radiated off of Sam at that encounter was breathtaking. Alta couldn't figure out which Sam impressed her more, the dark, terrifying one or the one who had taken care of her—the one whose face was softer, whose eyes were lighter, who smiled and even laughed a little. If she was honest with herself, it was probably the powerful one—the strong hunter—the dangerous bad-boy that stirred the deepest emotions in her.

Gwyn was right. Sam was a long cool drink of water. Alta had to admit she liked Sam's physique. He was too tall, _way too tall_, but the whole package worked together so well. He had those perfect broad shoulders that tapered down to a small waist and an impossibly flat stomach. All that topped off mile-long legs. She could imagine the muscles he had on his chest and arms. She'd felt them when he held her against him, carrying her out of the woods. She was in pain at the time, but she wasn't dead to the feel of that gorgeous body.

His face wasn't hard to look at either, especially when she thought of the way he'd looked at breakfast. His face was soft. His eyes were hazel but almost blue in the bright light of day. His eyes had an exotic quality, an almost imperceptible slant—a cat-like look about them. His heart-shaped face was framed by that long, chestnut hair that Alta just knew was soft and silky. And his lips…

Alta felt warm and she began to feel a longing, burning deep in her core—a surge of scorching wetness. As much as he pissed her off, as much as she wanted to dislike him, Sam Winchester definitely turned her on. _Oh, this was so not good. _

_**TBC**_


	6. Practiced Are My Sins

_**Thanks so much for the comments, alerts and favorites.**_  
_**I'll be taking a break next week, so I will probably not be posting for a couple of weeks. Hang in there with me and I'll be back again soon**_.

_**Many grateful thanks to Sam's Folly for the wonderful job you do b**__**eta'ing my story. You challenge me to be better. Love you bunches, girl!  
****Any errors you find belong to me, not to my beta, as I can't help but keep tweaking things.**_

_**Anything you recognize belongs to its rightful owner, CW, Kripke and SPN. Alta is my own creation as are a few of the other OC's here in this AU. They have no relation to any real person.**_

* * *

**Family Secrets: Prequel – The Beginning – Chapter Six**

_**Practiced are my sins, never gonna let me win.  
Under everything, just another human being.  
I don't wanna hurt, there's so much in this world to make me bleed.**_

_**Just Breathe – Pearl Jam**_

* * *

Pure evil had walked upon the earth, and the damage it caused was profound. Evil pierced the veil in the rundown building in Chicago when Sam said yes and Lucifer took possession of his vessel. Lucifer had burned the surface of the world with the feet of Sam Winchester during his brief walk on earth, and when Lucifer tread across the grounds of Stull Cemetery on his way to the final battle with Michael, Sam's large footsteps had torn holes in the boundary between earth and the dark places where primordial beings dwelt. Light crept into darkness and ancient evil began to stir.

There were whispers in the deep darkness—tiny, high voices twittering above a constant low hum. There were flashes of sight, like lightning, revealing a small hand, the small thin leg of what appeared to be a child. There was another—a face, but not a child's face. A third hissed in anger as the body of a snake slithered down her cheek.

They were three sisters—small, but not children. They were never children, not since the dawn of time. There was a sudden flurry and the deafening sound of beating wings.

"Murder…he killed her." Trisiphone spat the words out. "Murderer."

Light flashed into the darkness and revealed Alecto's smile. "What will you do, sister?"

"Make him suffer." Megaera's voice echoed into the darkness. "He must pay for what he has done."

"Will you kill him?" Alecto pulled her petite hand across the face of her sister, reaching up to caress the small snake that slithered along her jaw, and tucking it behind Trisiphone's ear as if it were a stray hair.

"He's not human," Trisiphone reasoned. "The same laws don't apply."

"He's not an ancient," Alecto pointed out. "He's not one of us. We should kill him—avenge the murder."

"He's human." Megaera growled low and angry. "He's human enough, Trisiphone, and he's a murderer. He should die."

Trisiphone's eyes lit up as she searched the faces of her sisters.

* * *

It wasn't easy to be focused and thoughtful in the Black Dog Tavern on a night like tonight. The Campbell clan was out in full force to enjoy the evening, but Sam Winchester's powers of concentration had been honed over years of hanging out in bars, pubs and taverns with his father and his older brother. More times than he would care to count, he'd holed up in a corner of some nameless pub researching, while John and Dean hustled pool or poker for cash. Before he was old enough to even be in a bar, he knew how to tune out the noise and commotion and blend into the background, but that would not be the way of things tonight.

Mark had talked Sam into joining them at the Black Dog, and the clan claimed their usual table, a rather large one near the back exit with a view of the entire room. Sam could see why they chose this location. It was the best vantage point in the bar—the exact spot any hunter would pick.

The Campbells wandered in throughout the early part of the night. When Sophia arrived, Mark's eyes lit up. It wasn't long before Mark left the table with her, and they spent most of the night dancing. Sam watched them absently. He could smell the attraction between them the moment their pale blue eyes locked onto each other—the scent of desire and lust. Mark held her close and they swayed softly, bodies molded together in more of an embrace than a dance.

Christian and his wife Arlene sat at one end of the table with Donnie and Merleene. Christian nursed a glass of bourbon while Arlene sat so close to Christian that she seemed to melt into his side. She wouldn't meet Sam's eyes when Christian introduced Sam to her. Sam could see that hers were hurt eyes—untrusting, and he could smell the fear pouring off her as she shifted and clung to Christian whenever anyone spoke to her or showed any attention, but she was only of passing curiosity to Sam.

Samuel was sitting next to Sam, keeping the waitress busy and everyone at the table happy. "They're good people, Sam." He leaned in to speak softly so that only Sam could hear. "We've been on a few runs now. You've seen what we can do together. I'd like to know what you think. I'd like to know that you're with us—for good."

"It's nice to have backup." Sam watched Samuel carefully. Why was it so important that he make a commitment? Was this some kind of cult thing? Sam wanted to leave his options open. He liked the backup, true enough, but he didn't want to be limited. He didn't want to have to answer to anyone—not to the clan, not to Samuel.

"Come on, Sam. It's better than that," Samuel wheedled. "These are good hunters. They're experienced, raised in the life." He refilled Sam's glass with bourbon. "Give credit where it's due. The hunt last night was flawless."

"Yeah." Sam had to admit last night's hunt was a thing of beauty. It was well researched, well planned and well executed, exactly the way Sam liked to hunt.

"We saved a lot of lives by wiping out that nest of vamps." Samuel smiled, and he seemed to expect more reaction from Sam. "Didn't lose any hunters, no major wounds." He held up his glass, his brows raised in expectation. "Here's to many more successful hunts."

Sam raised his glass in toast. "To many more." They drank down the shots in one gulp.

Mark and Sophia were crowding around the table, reaching for a glass, as Samuel poured bourbon into a row of shot glasses.

"Hey!" Christian called from the end of the table. "To our newest clan member." He raised his glass to Sam and smiled.

"To our newest clan member!" Samuel echoed.

"Hear, hear!" Gwyn slid into the open seat next to Sam and bumped up against his shoulder. "Always love to have a reason to celebrate," she breathed into his ear.

Sam began to feel uncomfortable with his back against the wall and Campbells swarming around him like bees, laughing and toasting him. He didn't like being the center of attention. He looked from one face to another.

Samuel was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Christian's smile was more of a smirk, Arlene cowering behind him. Gwyn gazed up at Sam through her long dark lashes, and Sophia was giggling at Mark. They only had eyes for each other. There were others crowding around and reaching in for a shot to join the toast.

Sam put his empty glass on the table in front of him, took a deep breath and placed his hands on either side of the glass. He slowly stood, intending to extricate himself from this knot of humanity that was too close, too personal and way too focused on him. Before he could move, the chalky end of a pool cue tapped the table between his hands.

"I challenge the newest member of the clan to a game of nine ball."

Sam looked up to see Alta's green eyes staring back at him.

She was clearly amused at his discomfort. "Let's see what you got, Sam Winchester." She shifted the cue over her shoulder and turned to lead him to the pool table. He got the feeling that everyone was watching him as he followed her, but he only watched the way her hips swayed as she moved through the crowd. He liked the way those hips fit into her jeans, and he thought that cute little ass would fit perfectly in his hands.

A month after she sprained her ankle on the werewolf hunt, Alta was no longer using crutches, instead, she wore a large stabilizing boot on her right foot. It didn't hinder her making her way around.

Alta had challenged Sam, so she racked, and he began the game with cue ball in hand. He made a good break, hitting the one solid and pocketing the three and the six. Alta leaned against the wall watching him as he ran the rest of the game.

"Looks like you're buying this time." Sam smiled and watched as she ponied up for two shots and two beers.

"You are so going down," Alta challenged as she racked the balls for the second game. Two out of three was all it took for Alta to show just how good a pool player she was.

After Sam gave up the ball to a fault on the break of the second game, he watched her run the next two. Watching her play pool was like watching an artist. It didn't take long for him to figure out that pool was definitely her forte. She made some difficult shots and looked good doing them.

He finally raised his hands in defeat. "I know when I've been bested." He nodded toward the bar. "I owe you another round."

Sam ordered drinks for them, and Alta motioned toward a small table away from the Campbells. "The clan can be overwhelming at times."

"I'm not used to so many people coming at me at once, unless they're trying to kill me," Sam joked.

"Yeah, I got that you were a bit uncomfortable." She tipped her shot glass to him and then drained it in one quick gulp. "I figured I owe you one."

He didn't quite understand what she meant.

"For taking care of me, you know—my foot?"

"Oh, right." Sam tipped his shot glass in return and took a sip, rolling the fiery drink around in his mouth and watching her as he swallowed. The last time he saw her, she was angry with him and left in a huff. What was this new friendliness? She seemed genuine. He didn't sense any deceit in her. "So, when will you be able to hunt again?"

"Soon. I'm going to see Doc Carson tomorrow. I'm hoping he'll set me free." She glanced down at the monstrous boot on her right foot.

Sam took a final swallow, finishing off the golden liquid and setting the empty glass down on the table before him. His fingers lingered on the glass, turning it idly. It didn't matter how much he drank or what he drank, he didn't feel anything from the alcohol. He knew it was strange—wrong, somehow, but it was just one of the things that was different about him, one of the things he kept secret.

Sam looked up straight into the crystal green eyes studying him intently. "So, tell me about this clan business. You said, 'You're either in the clan, or you're not.' Samuel seems to want complete commitment too. What is this all about? Is it a cult or something, because you don't seem like the cult type?"

"No," she answered quickly, but then she hesitated, a more thoughtful look on her face. "It's not like that. It's more like…tradition. It's just that we've always hunted only with clan, never with anyone outside the clan."

"What about the women, like you? What if you marry someone who's not a Campbell? What happens then?"

"In-laws are considered part of the clan. But the women who marry into the clan aren't usually hunters."

"Like Arlene?"

"Yeah, like Arlene." Alta got a strange look on her face. "Well, it's not uncommon for us to marry within the clan—cousins, just not close cousins."

"That all sounds cultish to me." He saw the look in her eyes. She was starting to get defensive. This may not end well. "I'm not trying to be critical. I'm just trying to understand." Sam held up his hands, palms out. He wanted to put her at ease and quell the anger he sensed in her. "Samuel wants me to make a commitment, and I'd just like to know exactly what it is he wants me to commit to."

Sam was being honest, and Alta seemed to accept his honest questions. "I guess it does seem kind of cultish to someone outside looking in, but we don't just follow blindly. We work together as a team. Samuel's more like an organizer. He sets up the hunts, manages the weapons and munitions, settles disputes—"

"How is that not like a cult?" Sam was careful to keep his voice soft. The last thing he wanted to do was piss her off. She was the only one of this clan he felt like he could talk to and get honest answers. He wasn't even sure why he felt that way about her.

Alta didn't answer. She just stared at him.

"Don't you have your own weapons, or does everybody use this shared arsenal from the back of Samuel's van?" The idea of a shared arsenal was foreign to Sam. Even when he hunted with Dean and they kept their arsenal in the trunk of the Impala, each of them had their own weapons. They cleaned and cared for their own weapons. When it was time to arm themselves, they loaded their own guns. "How can you use weapons you don't clean and load yourself?"

"I have my own weapons. It's just…" She thought for a moment. "...more efficient?"

"It's control." Sam eyed her. He could see that she didn't believe what she just said. "It's unsafe."

Alta took a sip of her beer and made a face. When she put the mug down on the table, she shoved it away from her.

"I don't mean to upset you," Sam said.

"No, it's not that. Beer's warm, and it's not really my drink anyway." She motioned for the waitress and ordered two bourbons. "You know, Samuel is new to me too, and, actually, so is this whole shared arsenal thing. It's old school. The clan hasn't functioned like this since before my time." She gazed across the room at the rest of the clan. Samuel locked eyes with her for a brief moment before she looked back at Sam. "You've given me a lot to think about, Sam."

"And what are you thinking?" The waitress brought their drinks, and Sam dropped money on her tray.

"Samuel is controlling, maybe more than I'm used to." She sighed and took a sip of her drink. "The others seem okay with it, though. They seem to like the way he runs things."

"But you're not so sure," Sam said, finishing her thought.

"Maybe not." She sipped again. "Tell me about the last hunt. I heard you cleared out a nest of vamps."

"We did." Sam smiled. She was changing the subject. He'd hit a nerve. Perhaps if he hit that nerve enough, he could break this hunter away from the clan. He decided he would stay here and hunt with the clan, just until he could convince Alta to be his new hunting partner, but he would make certain Samuel understood that he would hunt on his _own_ terms, not on Samuel's.

* * *

When Sam started telling Alta about the last hunt, she was already feeling the effects of the bourbon shots and the beers she'd won at the pool table. That didn't mean she couldn't follow the story as Sam told it. When she finished her drink, he pushed his in front of her and she drank that one while he continued to recount the extermination of the vamps.

He wasn't a very good storyteller. It was like listening to a news report, with no emotion on Sam's part until he got to the actual kill. She could see it in his body language, which was absent for most of the story. She could hear it in his voice—his love for the kill. It was the only time his eyes showed any expressiveness, and if they were beautiful before, his eyes were afire with feeling when he related beheading the vamps. It crossed her mind that it was actually kind of creepy, but she got lost listening to his deep, soft voice and watching his eyes glow with a passion she'd not seen in him. He even showed those dimples that framed his smile. Yes, he smiled and she thought he even laughed once or twice—a rare occurrence.

When Sam finished his story, the crowd had thinned to just a few. Samuel was still watching as he had been most of the night. Mark and Sophia were still lost in each other, sitting with Samuel at the Campbells' table. Gwyn was taking a turn at the pool table with some customer Alta had never seen before.

Alta couldn't stifle the yawn that escaped her lips and Sam picked up on it right away. "Time to call it a night?" he asked.

"I am tired, and I do have to go see Doc Carson in the morning."

Sam stood and looked down at her. "I'll walk you to your car."

"I don't—"

"I know you don't need anybody to walk you to your car. You are more than capable of taking care of yourself." Sam held his hand out to her, palm up, fingers reaching. "But I'm leaving too, and we're going the same way."

It seemed innocent enough, and Alta smiled at his reply. Maybe he was finally getting the picture. She was not a helpless girl that needed him to fight her battles for her but a skilled hunter, perfectly capable of fighting her own battles.

Alta allowed Sam to guide her to the door with his hand resting on the small of her back. She couldn't deny that she liked the warmth of his large palm spanning across her and resting lightly against the top of her jeans, or the slight play of his long fingers against her side. She also couldn't help but notice Samuel staring with interest as they walked past. Sam didn't seem to notice.

Alta hesitated at her car. She turned and leaned against the door, facing Sam. "It was a nice night," she told him. "I enjoyed the game and the talk."

"Yeah, me too." Sam gazed steadily at her, his hazel eyes unreadable. He stepped closer. For a moment, she thought it was unfair how she could get so lost in his presence so quickly. He loomed over her, blocking out everything but himself. He made her feel nervous—and hot.

She could feel the heat deep inside her, a sudden rush. Sweat popped out on the back of her neck. When she looked up at him, damn if he didn't smile, just enough for those dimples to peek at her. "I hope you'll think better of the clan. Give us a chance to show you what we're really like." She felt the need to get him to stay here, and she wasn't sure whether it was for the clan or for her own reasons.

Sam held her with his eyes, stepping even closer to her. He placed his hands on the roof of the car, on either side of her head, and leaned down until his lips were nearly touching hers. "I might like that." His warm breath whispered across her lips, and her body arched up to meet him, not quite touching her lips to his. She was almost lost in Sam's eyes—almost—but she placed her hands firmly on his chest, holding him in check. He watched her intently, his face unreadable. She couldn't help but think that he was too big, too powerful, too frightening—too much.

Suddenly, Sam's hands were no longer on the roof of the car. She was no longer wrapped in the cage of his big body, his lips no longer just a whisper away from a kiss. She heard an unexpected rush, like the flapping of wings. Sam's head jerked back, his body arched, and he cried out in pain as he stumbled away from her.

"Sam!" Alta screamed. The three beings that surrounded him beat their wings against his body and clawed at him with long sharp nails. He swung out at them but they hovered around him, held aloft in flight, out of his reach, each one darting in to beat and claw at him in a deafening fury. Sam ducked and flailed his long arms at each attack, trying desperately to fend off the creatures.

"Mark! Gwyn!" Samuel's sharp calls rang in Alta's ears. She saw him running toward the van and wondered if he had followed them out of the bar. He had been watching them. Was he following them, spying on them?

Mark ran out of the bar with Gwyn hot on his heels. Sam was stooping, one hand reaching up to shield him from the creatures, their wings continuing to beat him and their claws ripping and tearing. They swarmed him, covering him so completely she could hardly see him.

The creatures were small, the size of young children, but clearly not children. Their bodies were those of women, fully grown, strong and muscular. Their faces were chilling, distorted in the grimace of hatred, mouths open, sharp teeth gnashing. Their tiny voices pierced through the night as they screamed for Sam to die. Most terrifying of all, their black hair slithered and writhed around each creature's head, filled with long, slender snakes that hissed and spit.

Alta drew her pistol and aimed at the head of one of the creatures. Her aim was true and she hit her mark directly between the eyes, but the silver bullet made only a momentary lull as the creature growled and hissed at Alta and then returned to the assault on Sam.

Alta saw the bright gleam of a silver blade as Sam pulled his knife from the shaft strapped to his shin. He sliced deep into the middle of one of the creatures, and its shrill scream filled the air and pierced through Alta's head. Samuel shoved a machete at her and she holstered her pistol, grabbing the blade and following Mark, Gwyn and Samuel into the middle of the fight.

With the five hunters slashing at them with machetes, the creatures pulled back from Sam and hovered above the group. They hissed and spit until one of the creatures pointed at Sam. "Murderer!" she screamed, and they retreated.

The accusation hung in the air around the group, leaving them all stunned and motionless until Sam groaned and started to stumble toward his car. His shirt was ripped to shreds, barely hanging onto his body, and it was covered with blood. Alta could see the cuts and slashes across his back as dark, red blood oozed from them.

"Wait, Sam!" She ran to him. "We need to get you to Doc Carson." Samuel and the others were immediately behind her, swarming him.

"No." Sam pushed away all the hands that reached for him.

The others stepped back, but Samuel leaned in close and held on to Sam's arm, supporting him. "Come on, son. We need to take a look at your wounds." His voice was soft, coaxing. "Let's get you cleaned up."

"Can do it myself," Sam stuttered.

Alta was puzzled by his response. He was wounded, obviously exhausted and he needed help.

"No," Samuel continued with his soothing voice. It was as if he were enticing a young child. "Let us help you. That's what family's for, son. Get you cleaned up—make sure you're okay."

Back at the compound, it was Mark and Alta who triaged Sam's injuries. Samuel brought clean cloths, warm water and disinfectant.

"These are not bad." Mark mused as he cleaned and examined wounds on Sam's chest. "Bet they sting like hell." Mark grinned.

Sam snorted back at him. "Yeah, a little." He braced himself, hands grasping the edge of the exam table on either side of his thighs as he sat there and let himself be cleaned. He rolled his eyes. "I could do this myself in the shower."

"Yeah, well, you couldn't examine these on your back so easy." Alta washed and disinfected the crisscross of claw marks. "What would you do if any needed stitches?"

"I've done my own stitches before."

"Not on your back you haven't." She pressed alcohol soaked gauze to a particularly nasty mark. "Nothing looks bad enough for stitches here."

Sam sat silent and still for the rest of their treatments. There were dozens of scratches on Sam's torso, all of them superficial, even though Alta was sure there had been deep gashes—deep enough to cover his shirt in blood. The cuts she and Mark were cleaning now couldn't have bled that much. Alta pondered as she treated him that either Sam was very good at fending off the creatures' attacks or they didn't mean to kill him. He was clearly outnumbered, and she saw their lethal claws digging into him as they attacked him. Something about this just didn't add up.

Her mind began to drift as her hands moved along the flesh of his long body. She saw beyond the wounds, to the hard muscles that made up Sam's back, the broad shoulders, the tight muscles of his arms, the beautiful shape of his back as it tapered down to his narrow waist and his very cute ass…

_What's wrong with me?_ she thought. She was looking at a wounded, bloody back and getting horny. _I __so need to get laid._

* * *

The next morning came too early. Alta sat on the edge of the exam table in Doc Carson's office. Her head hurt, her mouth was dry and her eyes were burning. She could have done with a little more sleep this morning or a little less alcohol last night.

"Late night last night?" The balding, white-haired doctor eyed Alta over his half glasses.

"Celebrating a successful hunt." Alta flexed her foot and rolled her ankle as he gently palpated it.

"What was it this time?" He paused and glared. "You better not have been out on that one."

She rolled her eyes. "No, I was just helping celebrate. It was a nest of vamps."

"Well, I didn't get any wounded hunters in here. Must have been a good hunt." He gently lowered her leg.

"We had a nasty encounter in the parking lot at Black Dog last night too." Alta sighed. "I don't know what kind of creatures they were. Something new."

"Been a few somethings new lately." Doc Carson looked at Alta intently. "Wonder what that's all about?"

"Don't know. Samuel says it's because Lucifer walked the earth."

"Interesting," the doc nodded. "No injuries?"

"Well, one of us, Sam was attacked. He was cut up pretty bad, not as bad as I thought." Alta was tempted to tell the doctor about her concerns, that the wounds should have been worse than they were, that there was more blood than could have come from superficial scratches, that he seemed to be in terrible pain at the scene but not so much by the time they got him back to the compound.

"Sam?" He watched her closely. "Winchester? New guy? Don't get many new guys into the clan. Do I need to see him?"

"No he's okay. Mark and I cleaned him up."

"Well, good," he moved on. "How about you? Any pain?"

"No."

"Well, I think you're good to go." He picked up her chart and wrote in it. "I'd tell you to take it easy, but I suppose that's not going to happen."

"It's a tough gig."

* * *

It had been years since Alta was in a committed relationship—her choice. She didn't think of herself as a particularly sensual person. She was not the touchy-feely type. She rarely hunted for sex, although she wasn't above a one-nighter once in a while. It just wasn't high up on her list of priorities, but she needed to get Sam Winchester out of her system. Tonight just might have to be one of those "once in a while's"

It seemed like a good idea at the time. She played a little pool, drank a little and swayed to the music of the live band as they played. It was hardly a band, really, just two guys with guitars and a harmonica. She liked the unplugged tunes they played, kind of folksy and bluesy, and the guys were pretty good.

She went home with the singer after the final set. He was tall, but everyone was tall to Alta's five-foot-two frame. He was long and lean with long, dark hair and bright, blue eyes. He was young, way too young, but he was hungry for her, kissing with abandon every part of her body. His lips were soft, and he whispered in her ear. He told her she was pretty and that she tasted so good. In spite of the rough callouses he had from picking his guitar, his hands were gentle. He made love to her slow and deep. She forgot everything. For just a sweet, few moments she forgot about Sam Winchester and how much she longed for him, and she forgot about how much he frightened her.

* * *

"_No, don't!" she screamed. The back of his big hand hit her face with such force, it knocked her off her feet__. She could feel the sting on her cheek and the pain in her jaw. How could he do this? Why did he get so angry?_

_She crawled across the floor, blood running from her nose and dripping on her hands. She couldn't move fast enough. He caught her foot and pulled her back._

"_Please don't," she begged. She couldn't understand. He promised he wouldn't do this again. "Don't." She choked on the word as it left her mouth. She knew he wouldn't listen._

_He kicked her body and she screamed. He fell on her, covering her with his large frame and slammed his hand over her mouth and nose. She couldn't breathe. She tried to scream. Hot tears streamed down her face, and the awful pain began._

* * *

Alta woke with white-hot panic burning in her belly. She was buried under thick covers, the body of a naked man lying next to her. She threw the covers off, desperately trying to catch her breath.

"Hey." His soft voice soothed her. He was propped up on his elbow, his face cradled in his hand. He reached to brush a stray hair out of her face, as his gentle, bright, blue eyes wandered over her. "You okay?"

She took a deep, calming breath. "Yeah,...um."

"Josh," he prompted her.

"Josh...sorry. It was just a bad dream." It was a nightmare that she never wanted to live through again, a wound she thought was healed, but some wounds leave scars that last a lifetime. Alta eased out of the bed, grabbing her clothes. "I gotta go."

"Come back to the bar tonight." Josh's smile was beautiful. "I'll sing a special song just for you." He was a handsome man with a sweet smile, and, damn, were those dimples?

"Yeah," she hedged. He was nice, uncomplicated, and she kind of liked him, but she knew she wouldn't be back.

This wasn't such a good idea after all. It was a mistake—a bad one. She was running scared. Honestly, she'd been running scared since the day Sam Winchester walked into the Campbell compound. Something about him pulled emotions from deep inside her, emotions she buried long ago. If she let him, he could crush her, not just her body, but her soul.

Alta had promised herself she would never let that happen again.

_**TBC**_


	7. The Light of a Dark Black Night

Many thanks to Sam's Folly, my beta, my mentor, my friend.  
**Any mistakes/errors you find are solely my own**

Thanks so much to those readers who take the time to comment. I do appreciate your comments and encouragement. Thanks to those who follow my story. I hope you continue to enjoy.

I don't own SPN or the characters and anything that you recognize in this story belongs solely to its owner, the CW, SPN, Kripke, the writers and Lennon and McCartney.

* * *

**Family Secrets: Prequel – The Beginning – Chapter Seven**

_**Into the Light of the Dark Black Night.**_

"_Yeah, I've heard of the Campbells."_ Bobby's voice sounded tight and disapproving. Obviously, he wasn't so pleased to hear about Sam's new family relations. _"They're kind of a secretive bunch. Got a rep as good hunters, but they don't share with the class."_

"It's an exclusive club, apparently." Sam stood in his motel room, one hand holding his cell to his ear and the other aimlessly sliding across the counter by the sink. He'd stayed in this one place, in this one room, long enough for the echoes of old filth to seep into his awareness. He got clean linens and towels whenever he asked for them, but that didn't do much to stave off the dank smell that emanated from the ancient cinder block walls or the twenty-plus-year-old curtains and carpet. Sam's nose wrinkled and he rubbed his fingers together, feeling the slight pull of some long forgotten and faintly sticky substance lingering on the counter. "You pretty much have to be born into the family or marry into it."

"_But somehow you got a special invitation, or are you planning on marrying in?"_

Sam snorted. "Mom was a Campbell. That's good enough, I guess."

"_Your __dad__ never talked about the Campbells. Far as I know__,__ him marrying into the family or you boys having Mary Campbell for a mother was never good enough before. Now__,__ all of a sudden__,__ you're good enough?"_ Bobby sighed, and Sam could tell he didn't like this situation. _"__A__nd you say Samuel's the leader of this clan__?__ I never knew him." _

"He died before Mom and Dad got married." Sam gazed at the black crud around the ancient faucets and his tooth brush in a cup right next to it. He ran his tongue along his teeth and grimaced. "Well, it's a sure bet that two resurrections in the same family at the same time is no coincidence. I'm not leaving until I find out what's going on." Sam didn't tell Bobby, but he couldn't shake the growing feeling that Samuel knew more than he let on.

"Did you ever think that by staying with the Campbells, you're probably playing right into his plan, whatever that is?"

"Well, that's the way to flush it out," Sam said. "You got any ideas on the creatures that attacked me last night?"

"The little women with wings and snakes in their hair?" Bobby grunted. "They're Greek. The Furies, the three goddesses of vengeance. Trisiphone is an avenger of murder, Megaera is the jealous one, and Alecto is constantly angry. The Furies punish people for crimes, and once you are on their radar, they never stop following you."

"They could have killed me, Bobby." Sam gazed at his bare chest in the mirror. By rights he should still have tender wounds and scars from the encounter. He ran his hand across the faint scratches. "What exactly is their MO?"

"They drive people mad. I'm guessing that means they follow you, torture you, maybe lay a heavy guilt trip on you until you go insane and kill yourself."

"Doesn't sound like they have anything to do with what brought me and Samuel back."

"No, but it sounds like a boatload of serious crap. They're after you for some reason and they ain't gonna stop."

"Yeah, I got that." Sam wasn't sure there was a problem. He couldn't see anything he had to feel guilty about.

"So, what is it, Sam? Murder, jealousy or anger?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "What difference does it make?"

"Devil's in the details, son. You know that as well as I do."

"I might have to get back to you on that." Sam picked up his toothbrush and tossed it in the trashcan. "You got anything on how to kill 'em?"

"Working on it."

"Well, let me know if you find something."

"Sam?" There was concern in Bobby's voice. "Be careful, not just with these Furies, but with the Campbells."

"You think they can't be trusted?"

"I just think you should be careful, is all."

"Point taken, Bobby. Call me if you get anything on ganking the Furies." Sam pocketed his phone and looked around the room. The smell that penetrated his senses was old and dank—the sweat, fear, lust, greed and hatred of too many years, too many people holed up, hiding or passing through. If he was going to settle here and be part of this clan, he would need to find a better place. Maybe later today, but first he needed to talk to Samuel.

* * *

"I got something to show you." Samuel closed the door to his office and locked it, and then he turned to face Sam. His eyes were bright and he had a little conspiratorial smile on his face. "Help me move this back a little." Samuel grabbed one side of his desk and motioned for Sam to take the other side. They moved the desk a couple of feet forward and Samuel moved his chair off the rug that covered the floor beneath the desk. He flipped the rug back and Sam saw what Samuel was getting at.

There was a trapdoor beneath the desk, and Samuel carefully slid his hand along one of the boards in the floor until he found the hidden handle and lifted the door. He motioned for Sam to follow and they descended the steps that led to an underground library, complete with a heavy oak worktable, lamps, and what looked to Sam like a few hundred books.

"The Campbell family library," Samuel proudly announced. "Some of these books came over from Europe on the Mayflower. We've got books here that our ancestors brought back from the Crusades. They've been copied, but the spell work and the information is accurate."

Sam was impressed. This library was amazing. It was way beyond even Bobby's extensive library of the supernatural.

"Come on." Samuel motioned for Sam to follow him into the stacks. "We'll find out what those creatures are and how to kill them.

"Furies," Sam said.

"What?" Samuel stopped his walk into the rows of books and turned to look at Sam. "How do you know that?"

"I called Bobby."

"Bobby Singer?" Samuel's eyes narrowed. "Why'd you call him? Why didn't you come to me?"

Sam shrugged. "It wasn't personal." He couldn't quite understand why Samuel was upset. "I knew he could help. Bobby's always been the best at research."

"Well, you can see what we've got here, Sam." Samuel turned and continued to lead Sam deeper into the library. "There's a section of Greek lore back here. Believe me, we'll find out how to kill those Furies. I guarantee there's more information here than anything Bobby Singer's got in his library."

"Looks like." Sam gazed at the stacks. He could feel the age of the books and smell the passion of the men who'd copied the words from even more ancient works.

"Not everyone knows about this place, just a select few." Samuel placed his hand on Sam's shoulder and leaned in to be eye to eye. "You're one of the select few, Sam. I'm trusting you here. I want you to trust me." Samuel's stare seemed to pierce deep into Sam, searching for understanding.

Sam wondered why was it so important to Samuel that he trust him.

"I need you with me on this," Samuel went on. "You don't need Bobby Singer. Just trust me, and together we can lead this clan. I want you to be my right hand, Sam. You're my grandson, my blood…" Samuel's voice became soft. "…Mary's boy. It's only right that we should work together. That's what family does." Samuel patted Sam's shoulder. "You'll be my best hunter, Sam, my second in command."

"What about Christian? I thought—"

"I need to keep Christian close. If anyone could make trouble, it would be him." Samuel's look was not unlike someone trapped—caught in a situation not of his own choosing. He let his hand slide down Sam's arm, giving him an affectionate squeeze before letting his hand drop back to his side.

Samuel's desperation gave Sam an edge, and Sam thought maybe they both knew it. "I'll work with you until we find out what brought us back and why." Sam was a little uncomfortable with Samuel's show of fondness toward him. He didn't understand it and he didn't think he liked it much.

"And if we can't figure that out?" Samuel asked. "I got no leads, Sam. None."

Sam laid out his conditions. "If it works out, I might stay on with the clan, at least until I find a suitable partner."

"You won't find one among the Campbells." Samuel's enigmatic smile reinforced Sam's feeling that Samuel was trying to maneuver him into a carefully orchestrated trap. "They're loyal to a fault. It's all about family. The clan is everything. It's in their genes, like you and Dean."

_Like you and Dean. _Those words pierced through Sam's head. _Like me and Dean._ There was a time when neither of the brothers would hunt without the other. They had been raised with that kind of fierce loyalty to each other. There was a time when Sam never would have left Dean to hunt with other people, even other family, but that was the old Sam. That was Sammy. He was different now. He didn't understand that kind of loyalty, and that's why he didn't put much stock in it.

* * *

_Dean was waiting in the Impala outside the school's main entrance. The afternoon's final bell sounded, ringing above the heavy metal music pouring out of the cassette player. "Hell's Bells Satan's coming for you... Hell's Bells He's ringing them now..." Dean lip synced along, playing his air guitar._

_Kids began to burst through the doors, just a few at first, making their way to the buses or their waiting parents. Dean watched. _

_What's taking him so long? He's dawdling. Dean huffed. Why does he always make me wait?_

_Finally, Sam slid out of the door among a group of kids, but he was not a part of that group. He was never anywhere long enough to be part of a group. Sam moveed off quickly to the side of the steps. His eyes searched for the Impala, and when he saw it, his face fell. _

_He knew. Damn. Dean searched Sam's face. They locked eyes. Dean knew the hopeless question in those eyes. _

_We're leaving... so soon?_

_Dean knew the instant Sam realized the answer to his question. Dean saw the desolation in Sam's eyes. _

_Yes, Dad's already on the road. _

_It was the same answer Sam got every time Dean picked him up instead of letting him walk home. Dozens of times they'd been through this. No time to say good-bye. Sam didn't need it. Never anywhere long enough to have anyone to say good-bye to. He didn't need to go back for anything. Sam carried his whole life in his backpack. Dean knew this. He'd seen it too many times—heard it too many times. _

_Sam stomped toward the car and Dean let out a long, heavy sigh. He knew the look. Sam was pissed. One of two things would happen. Either Sam would curse and argue—bitter words, desperate words—for miles down the road, or he would brood and pout._

_Dean watched as Sam's hand reached for the door. He rolled his eyes. Here it comes._

_The door flew open and Sam was there—not sixteen-year-old Sam—Sam. _

_Dean was startled. He recoiled from his brother, head plastered against the window behind him, body flat against the door, pushing hard, trying to push himself through the door and away from Sam._

_Blood driped from Sam's face, and his burnt, black, peeling skin sloughed off his body. His arms reached out, stretching across the car to almost touch Dean. Sam's fingers were like claws grabbing for his brother. Dean could smell the burnt flesh and the putrid smell of sulfur. Hell. Dean knew he smelled Hell. _

_Sam's eyes pleaded with Dean. His voice croaked. "Dean?"_

_Dean's eyes watered. Tears fell, and he was lost in those pleading hazel eyes. Dean reached out. "I'm not gonna leave you, Sammy. I'll find a way to get you out." Dean's hand was almost there, his fingers almost touching his brother's scorched cheek. _

"Dean!"

Dean felt like his heart had just exploded.

He blinked. Ben was looking at him.

He blinked again.

Still Ben.

One more blink.

"Dean? You okay, man?" Ben was sitting in the Impala next to Dean, the top of his book bag sticking up between his knees.

"Yeah... I just... 'm fine." Dean cleared his throat, stalling, trying to get his thoughts together, and he realized his hand hung in the air still reaching for Sammy. He pulled back, searching for something until he finally curled his fingers around the steering wheel, turning his body to face the windshield. "I'm... sorry."

Ben watched Dean. His soft brown eyes were so like his mother's, and he looked worried. "Let's go for Pizza. I'm starved. Lunch was crap."

"Yeah," Dean nodded. Ben was giving him a way out, and Dean was thankful for the kid's perception. He took a deep breath, pushing down the panic he felt, ruthlessly crushing his fear. He didn't want to talk about it, not to Ben—not to anyone. "I gotta make a stop first."

"Yeah? Where?" Ben relaxed, and it made Dean feel better. Crisis averted.

"Salvage yard. There's a car I want to look at." Dean glanced at the rearview mirror before he pulled out onto the road. He eased into traffic and headed toward the edge of town. "It's a 1971 Pontiac T-37 Tempest."

Ben snorted. "What is it with you and old cars?"

"Don't you like my car? She's my baby," Dean crooned, while he ran his hands softly over the steering wheel. "Don't listen to him, baby. You're not old. You're a sweet ride. You're a classic."

"Okay, okay." Ben giggled. "I love the Impala, but what do you want with another old—I mean, _classic_ car?"

"She's a wreck." Dean looked at Ben with a grin and raised his eyebrows. "I'm gonna fix her up and sell her. That pretty little baby is gonna be the start of my new business."

"Really?" Ben's smile was so bright it practically glowed, and Dean was touched. "Does that mean you're gonna stay?" asked Ben.

Dean was more than touched. He felt as if his heart had been slammed with a two-by-four. "Yeah, buddy." He could feel hot tears prickle in his eyes, and quickly turned his face away, looking out the windshield. He was developing a real soft spot for Ben. "I'm gonna stay, and I'm gonna teach you how to work on classic cars too."

* * *

It was hours later when Sam came out of Samuel's office and into the common room. He had found what he needed, provided the information was correct. The text was ancient and no doubt had been copied numerous times.

"Sam?" Christian greeted him with a suspicious look. Sam could tell he was jealous, uncertain of what he and Samuel had their heads together about for so long. Obviously, Christian didn't like anything going on that he wasn't privy to. Sam was sure that would mean trouble, but he'd let Samuel deal with Christian's issues. Sam actually liked that Christian was worried and he'd just as soon let him stay that way. So, he nodded and quickly passed by him to make his way over to the coffeemaker. He wondered where Alta might be.

Most people were like open books to Sam, their emotions written on their faces and playing out clearly in their actions, but Alta was an enigma, a very frustrating enigma. She was fiercely loyal to her clan, but he could sense the doubts she had. She was suspicious of Christian and of Samuel. That fact made Sam respect her even more. Of all the clan, she and Sam were the only ones who seemed doubtful of the leader and his second in command. Of course, she was suspicious of Sam too, but he didn't disrespect her for that. In fact, he thought she was smart, but the fact that she distrusted him would make it difficult for him to convince her to leave the clan and hunt with him. Strike one.

Alta was attracted to him. Sam had no doubt. He'd felt her looking at him—felt the desire in her when she touched his body as she cleaned the wounds on his back. She had sought him out at the bar, and when he walked her to her car, she was so close, so filled with need he could taste it. But she'd closed him off so suddenly—cut off her own desires mercilessly. It wasn't the Furies' attack that had stopped him. It was Alta that stopped him, her hands firm on his chest, making clear her wish for him to stop. She denied her own longing, and he couldn't understand that. Why would she, and how could she cut her feelings off like that?

If she just didn't like men or didn't want sex, he could live with that, but he knew that wasn't true. He'd followed her last night, watched her leave the Elbow Room with the singer. Sam was hidden in the shadows when she passed him in the early hours of the morning as she left the singer's apartment. He smelled her. She smelled like sex, and he smelled the singer all over her.

If she had a lover, it would be difficult to convince her to leave the clan and hunt with him. Strike two.

"You're deep in thought." Gwyn nudged Sam's shoulder, breaking him out of his contemplations. When he looked down at her, she smiled and her green eyes sparkled. She held out a cup of coffee for him. "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing." Sam took the coffee, sniffed it and took a sip of the hot, bitter liquid. "Strong," he commented.

"Yeah," she snickered. "Mark got to the coffeemaker first. He can't help it. When he makes coffee, all bets are off. You never know what you're gonna get. He never measures."

"Hey." Mark feigned hurt in his voice. "It's free." He smiled at Sam. "Man-coffee. Put hair on your chest, right?"

"I don't need any more hair on my chest," Sam returned. Gwyn laughed. Sam wondered why.

Sam could see the resemblance between the cousins, Alta and Gwyn. She was probably a little taller than Alta, but not by much. The thick, dark, auburn hair was the same and both women possessed startling emerald-green eyes. Gwyn was much more easygoing than Alta. Sam thought Gwyn was a good hunter. He'd watched her on the past few runs the clan had done while Alta was sidelined with her ankle. Gwyn lacked spontaneity, though, the impulsiveness he'd seen in Alta when she chased down the wounded werewolf on his first hunt with the clan. True, it was very nearly a disaster, but Sam knew with the right backup, it would have been a spectacular kill, not a near miss. There was no doubt in Sam's mind that he was the right backup for Alta, as she was for him.

"So, are you going to the Black Dog tonight?" Gwyn asked.

"I don't know. Maybe." Sam washed his mug out and placed it in the drain by the coffeemaker. "I might see you there."

"Well, don't go anywhere by yourself." Mark's voice was serious. "Those things are probably still after you, and you don't want to be without backup."

"No." Sam's voice was soft and pensive in return. "I don't want to be without backup."

* * *

He sat alone, in a dark corner of the Elbow Room. Dark clothes and economy of movement kept him unnoticed by all but the waitress, who stopped by his table to bring him beer. Sam waited and watched to see if Alta would come back here tonight. He needed to know if her relationship with this singer was serious. When she came into the bar, he watched to see if she went home with the singer again. If she did, then Sam would know it was more than a one-night stand for her, and that would be a problem for Sam.

He couldn't say the music was unpleasant. It wasn't loud and beating against his ears. The crowd seemed to enjoy it, clapping and smiling between numbers. Sam didn't really understand music. He could tell if it was on key, if all the harmonies blended and if it made rhythmic sense, but the beauty of it, the art of it, was lost on him. Music speaks to the soul, and Sam had no soul.

All things considered, Sam rather liked this place. It was quieter and more peaceful than the Black Dog, but that was probably because it wasn't full of Campbells all joking, laughing and crowding around. And here he had a quiet corner all to himself, where he could observe and be apart from everyone.

Socializing wasn't Sam's long-suit, and small talk was beyond him. Either you had something important to say, or why bother? He didn't think he'd always been that way. Maybe Sammy had understood people. Sam could read people like open books, but he didn't understand them.

Sam didn't like to socialize, but he did like to watch. He learned a lot that way, and watching Alta was definitely not a chore. She was at one of the two pool tables in the back of the bar; no doubt she was playing nine ball. The poor sucker who waited his turn, leaning against the wall with his cue angled across his shoulders, was waiting for a turn that wasn't likely to come. Alta worked the table like the pro that she was, her movements graceful and succinct.

What intrigued Sam most was that she had not so much as glanced toward the stage. Either there was no relationship between her and this singer or the relationship was so well established, so old and comfortable, they didn't need to reassure each other with looks.

"Promised I'd sing a special song for a special lady." The singer's voice flowed out soft and smooth across the room. Customers murmured their approval.

Sam's attention remained riveted on Alta. His lips pressed hard together, and he struggled to keep a groan from leaving his throat. _How fucking romantic._

The singer plucked out a graceful rhythm on his guitar, his foot tapping time, his fingers dancing swiftly across the strings. Finally, his soft lilting voice sang out.

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night  
Take these broken wings and learn to fly  
All your life  
You were only waiting for this moment to arise_

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_  
_Take these sunken eyes and learn to see_  
_All your life_  
_You were only waiting for this moment to be free_

_Blackbird fly, blackbird fly_  
_Into the light of the dark black night_

_Blackbird fly, blackbird fly_  
_Into the light of the dark black night_

He broke into a riff, and his guitar playing was flawless. Smiling across the room, there was no doubt which special lady he was singing to.

Alta had completely abandoned her game. She stood, swaying gently to the music, smiling back at the singer. Sam could see that she was obviously impressed with this guy's romantic nonsense.

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night  
Take these broken wings and learn to fly  
All your life  
You were only waiting for this moment to arise  
You were only waiting for this moment to arise  
You were only waiting for this moment to arise_

Sam had seen enough. He left a tip on the table and slipped out the backdoor, headed toward his car. He had his answer. There was a relationship, and that was definitely a problem.

* * *

"Murderer."

Sam ducked when he heard the whispered word and felt the swift rush of air as something flew past him. He felt sharp feathers graze the back of his neck, and he stopped, turned and listened to the silence around him. Sam knew what he heard, and he knew what it was.

He quickly reached his car and as he was slipping into the driver's seat he heard the hissing of snakes and the accusation flying at him once again. "Murderer," it whispered.

Just as he slammed the door, he heard the passenger side door open. His fingers swiftly gripped the handle of the twelve-inch Tanto blade he carried in his jacket. _Come on._ A smile curled the edges of Sam's lips. _All of you at one time. _He pulled the blade swiftly, arching his back and craning sideways to get an angle that would afford him a clear slice of the intruder in the cramped space of his car. He managed to stop his swing, knife frozen in midair.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Alta was motionless half way in the door, her hands held up in surrender. She braced herself, one knee against the seat. "It's just me." She eased down into the seat and turned her intensely questioning green eyes on him. "Who did you think it was? Those things again?"

"Furies," Sam informed her as he tucked his blade back into his jacket. "I heard them outside the car."

"I didn't see them, didn't hear anything."

"How did you—"

"I'm a hunter, Sam." Alta rolled her eyes at him. "I saw you in the bar. Why didn't you speak to me? Were you following me?"

"No," Sam lied. "Looked like you might be having some luck at the table. I didn't want to make you lose a mark." Sam shrugged. "I was just there because it was a quiet spot. The Black Dog is kinda noisy. I needed some alone time. Why are you here?"

"Needed to hustle up a little cash. I have a reputation at the Black Dog." Alta smiled at Sam. "This place is new to me. I'm not known. Some of the regulars think I'm fresh meat." She shrugged. "It won't last long. Just long enough for them to understand that my winning is not a fluke and they're not as good at pool as they think."

Sam watched her as she talked, waiting for her to tell him about her boyfriend, but she didn't mention him.

"So, you think the Furies were out there?" She changed the subject. "Why would you come out without backup? That's dangerous."

Sam didn't answer.

"Okay then." Alta seemed to study him even more closely. "Have you found a way to kill them?"

"Yes." Sam watched her reaction. This could be a good opportunity to work together, just the two of them, like a trial run.

"And?" Alta waited.

"I need to perform a ritual—well, two actually." Sam took in a deep breath. "One to sanctify the blade and one to call the Furies to me. I have to take them all three at once."

"You are not doing this alone." Alta looked at Sam as if he'd grown a second head.

"You want to help?"

"We got a whole clan to help."

Sam needed to get her to stop thinking that everything had to be about the clan. Somehow he had to get her thinking in terms of her own skills apart from the others. "We can't do it with the whole clan. Look what happened last time five hunters closed in on them. They took flight." Sam stared intently at Alta, willing her to understand. "They won't come, not with that many hunters around. These Furies are ancient gods, not stupid monsters. We need to hunt lean and smart to trap and kill them." Sam sighed. "I'll do it myself."

"No. It's not safe." Alta was battling within herself. Sam watched the emotions play across her face. She wanted to trust him, but she was afraid to. Finally her face showed a determined resignation. "When do we do this? Tonight?"

"The sanctification ritual has to be performed on a new moon."

"Next week, then."

* * *

Dean rolled his eyes at the dark storefront. Yeah, it fit the pattern. An "olde-worlde" little bookstore. Sam would like this. He stepped inside, and a tiny bell tinkled above him as the door closed. The musky smell of old books hit him, and Dean couldn't help but snort. This place was so quaint it was a cliché. Even the bright morning sunlight couldn't filter through the windows. They were so dusty, partially covered with large painted letters announcing the name of the shop—Pandora's Bibliotheque. Seriously? Yeah, even Sam would laugh at that. Sam would definitely laugh at Dean coming to a shop full of strange and unusual things like this. It was more Sam's kind of place, but Dean felt strangely close to his brother here. He would have liked to see Sam laughing at him.

The walls were lined with bookshelves all crowded with old books. There were glass counters filled with even older books, charms, talismans and odd items. Dean wandered through the stacks, running his hand along the tattered spines of leather-bound books.

"Looking for something in particular?"

_Oh, perfect. English accent no less,_ Dean mused. _Can this be anymore clichéd?_

"Yeah," Dean answered. Then he turned toward the owner of the creepy English accent. He was old. His face seemed to draw up to a point from which his long, hooked nose stretched out toward Dean. His tiny little mouth was all but lost beneath the shadow of the offensive snout. He had coal-black hair that was short on the left side but swept down long on the right, softening the angular curve of his jaw, and ending at his pointed chin.

_How can a man so old have so much hair?_ _It's not a wig. Must be implants._ His beady, black eyes nailed Dean, and it took everything Dean had not to recoil from the face of this man. _Fugly! _Then he realized that the tiny little mouth was smiling at him and although the eyes were small and beady, they were not unkind. "I'm looking for a book of spells."

"Ah. A grimoire." The man looked oddly at Dean. "What would you want with a grimoire?" He turned and motioned for Dean to follow, not waiting for an answer. Perhaps it was a rhetorical question, not his business to know or even care about the answer. "I have a very ancient text. It's very dear, very costly." He stretched out the last word, bouncing on both the "c" and the "t" crisply, like he was speaking to a child.

"How costly?" Dean bounced the word back in perfect imitation, with a grin.

"More than you can afford, I'm certain." The man glanced back at Dean.

"How much?" Dean growled this time. Patience was not his long-suit, and he needed to be home before evening. He didn't want to have to explain his trip out of town.

"Depends." The man turned and nailed Dean with suddenly fierce eyes. "Are you a hunter?"

"Depends." Two could play this game. "What would you want with a hunter?"

The bookseller curled a bony finger at Dean. "These are strange times, no doubt."

"Not sure I know what you mean." Dean watched as the man turned toward a shelf of ancient leather-bound books.

The man pursed his thin lips into a tiny bow and pulled one of the largest books from the stacks. "You must have noticed the strange behavior of late, of the beasts that haunt mankind. The rules seem to be changing. New beasts are coming to light—ancient, evil creatures."

"They're all low-crawling, belly-to-the-ground, pieces of crap to me," Dean hissed.

"No." The man shook his head and gazed at Dean, his eyes piercing deep. "Something has changed recently. Some great evil has come into the world."

_Yeah. A host of self-ri__ghteous angels who tried to tear the world apart with their apocalypse._ Dean stared calmly back at the bookseller, making sure he didn't let his emotions show to the man's intense, searching gaze. _Sam stopped those dicks and now he's paying the price for all of us._

"What?" Dean snorted. "You feel a disturbance in the force?" His features hardened in annoyance. "I just came here looking for a book. Can you help me or not?"

"My name is Harahel." The man's dark eyes sparkled and his hard features seemed to soften a bit as a smile crossed his tiny mouth. "If you will tell me what you are searching for, hunter, I will help you find it."

"Well, Mr. Harahel," Dean hesitated, clearing his throat, "I'm looking for a spell to bring a person back from Hell." Dean expected amazement, laughter even, but not the thoughtful look that the bookseller gave him.

"What you are asking, I don't believe it can be done." Harahel's voice was grave. "There is a barrier between Hell and Earth, a veil that holds back dark evil—ancient evil. It should not be pierced, unless…"

Dean flinched under the man's penetrating glare.

"…it has already been pierced. What evil have you brought into the world, hunter?"

"_I_ didn't bring anything into the world." Dean was becoming irritated and tired of going in circles with this weird little man. "Someone else—some_thing_…things…elses…" Dean stumbled over the words. "…tore open that damn veil and I'm trying to save an innocent man."

Harahel continued to stare intently at Dean.

"He shoved the evil back in, and he got stuck."

"That's quite a tale of woe," said Harahel. "He was a hunter? Like yourself?"

Dean could sense the man softening. "My brother," he replied softly.

Harahel nodded and placed the large book he'd been holding back onto the shelf.

Dean's face fell. "Please, I need your help."

The bookseller sniffed loudly through his large nose and gave a little sigh. His eyes searched the shelf until his long, bony fingers pulled out a small, thin book. "This is what you seek. There is a spell." His beady eyes locked with Dean's. "The book I give you—no cost. But the spell will cost you very dearly."

_**TBC **_


	8. Gonna Make This Place Your Home

**Grateful thanks to my beta, Sam's Folly for correcting, suggesting and encouraging me.**  
_Thanks to deb167 for the suggestion. Here's more Dean/Lisa and Ben for you. Enjoy._

Anything you recognize in this story belongs to its rightful owner, CW, Kripke, SPN and the writers as well as Philip Phillips for the song _Home_.

* * *

**Family Secrets: Prequel – Chapter Eight**

_**Just know you're not alone  
'cause I'm going to make this place your home**__**.  
**_

Castiel, angel of Thursday, stood before the Host of Heaven. He was small in stature compared to most of the angels. In fact, almost all of the angels that made up the Heavenly Host were of higher rank than Castiel. Most were older and had more important and specific duties than this insignificant angel. Yet, here he stood.

Castiel's eyes wandered over the angels gathered before the seat of power—the seat once occupied by Michael. Castiel's wings spread out behind him, white flight-feathers spread out like fingers reaching out to feel the gentle breeze of heaven flow through them. His sparkling white robe flowed around him in fluid waves. Castiel knew that on Earth, he would strike fear and awe in the minds and hearts of those who saw him, but here all but a few were unimpressed by his appearance. What would impress them, what they waited for, were his words.

"There will be no apocalypse." Castiel paused and the angels all stared at him. "There will be no battle between Michael and Lucifer." The wings of the angels gathered before him remained unfurled, tucked and folded against their backs. He could still hear them, though—could hear the sound of rustling feathers and could feel the breeze created by the movement of thousands of wings, pulsing nervously against the angels' backs.

Castiel went on with his speech. "Lucifer has been locked away, back inside his cage."

The angels gasped and murmured in amazement. There was never a contingent in Heaven for not having an apocalypse—for not having a battle between Michael and Lucifer, a war between Heaven and Hell.

"How can this be? It is not possible." The low, angry voice of Raphael was little more than a growl as he rose up and stood before the empty seat of power, where his beloved brother Michael had ruled over the entire Host of Heaven.

"The Winchesters refused to be the puppets of Michael and Lucifer. They refused, and together we found a way to stop the war." Castiel held his head high and proud. His chest puffed out and his wings spread to their widest span. He was dwarfed in the shadow of the mighty archangel Raphael.

"Did Michael agree to this?" Raphael's eyes bore down on Castiel. His wings began to unfurl, threatening the smaller angel with his great size.

"Michael is locked in the cage with Lucifer." The entire Host filled Heaven with the sound of their collective gasp, voices raised in confused chatter. Their wings unfurled and beat against the air in a deafening sound.

"Wait!" Balthazar's voice boomed out above the din. "Wait! Please listen! Hear what Castiel has to say."

Raphael raised his hands, quieting the gathered crowd. His hard eyes gazed at the angel Balthazar, adviser to kings, wise men, and angels. Raphael's face was dark and angry.

Castiel's voice rang out above all the angels, strong and certain. "I believe God gave me the task to help the Winchesters and stop the apocalypse. He set me on this path with these hunters. Only God's power could change the fate of the world." Castiel began to grow—taller, broader, and stronger. His wings began to glow with a bright, white light, and a rainbow of color shone out behind him. "Only the power of God could bring me back from death."

The angels were all still and quiet now, carefully watching this very different Castiel.

"There is a new age in Heaven," he announced. He turned a disdainful eye toward Raphael.

Raphael returned his look with contempt.

* * *

Sam wound his way up the narrow steps that led to the apartment he'd found and leased this morning. The owner of the pub downstairs had begun his life in this country living with his wife in the one-bedroom flat above their business. Now they had a house and kids. He leased out the apartment, and he was more than happy to have a strong and brave young man like Sam living above his business. Sam promised to keep an eye out for his business during the nights. The owner had smiled to himself when he gave Sam the key, obviously glad to have rent and a little free security.

Sam made it clear that he worked out of town frequently and his hours were sporadic at best. He valued his privacy and would not tolerate any unexpected visits. He set up automatic payments for rent, so there was no need to come by for any reason. His property would be well maintained; if there was a problem or if he needed something, Sam would call. The owner laughed and huffed a little, wanting to maintain control, but Sam simply informed him that if his demand for privacy was not acceptable, he would rent elsewhere. Sam soon had the keys in hand.

Sam's furnished apartment was sparse, but it was clean. The smells from the small kitchen of the pub downstairs were pleasant, deli and fast food mostly. Every day brought the smell of fresh bread, delivered from a bakery down the street. There was always homemade soup simmering, and who could complain about the occasional smell of fresh french fries?

Right now the smells from the pub downstairs weren't even in his thoughts. He stood in the middle of the small living area, surrounded by the ceaseless, whispering accusations of the Furies. They seemed to come at him day and night. They were inside his head, in his mind. If they were supposed to drive him crazy like Bobby said, they just might do it—not because they made him feel guilty, but because the little bitches were annoying as hell.

"_Murderer!"_ Their constant chant. Over and over and over. "_Murde__rer, murderer, murderer."_

"I'm not a murderer. I'm a hunter. It's a tough job, full of tough choices."

Tiny little voices—harsh whispers. "_Gloria begged you to save her. She believed you would save her."_

"I couldn't help her. Wrong place, wrong time."

The sound of flapping wings and cold air on the back of his neck. "_The last thing she saw was you __aiming your gun at her and shooting her."_

Sam clenched his fists.

"_Imagine the hurt when she realized as she died that you killed her." _Cold breath in his face.

"Unfortunate." Sam pushed his lips together hard, clenching his teeth. If it's a battle of wills, the bitches would not win.

"_Cindy McClellan."_ Touch of a cold hard claw on his cheek.

"She was Lilith's personal chef."

"_She was a nurse." _Tiny voices—louder, shrieking at him. "_She had a husband that loved her."_

"She stole babies from the hospital nursery and fed them to Lilith."

Wings frantically flapping around him. "_You could have saved her." _Screaming voices. "_You could have pulled that__ demon, but you tortured her."_

"I needed the intel." Sam breathed deep and shrugged.

"_She told you what you needed to know__."_The voices growled. "_You murdered her anyway."_

He rolled his eyes. "I didn't kill her. Ruby did."

"_You held her down." _Slapping wings—cold grabbing hands. "_You drank her blood."_

"It was wartime. Collateral damage. I needed the power. I had an apocalypse to stop. The world hung in the balance." Sam calmly walked to the kitchen and took a glass from the cabinet.

"_You tipped the balance in the wrong direction. You set Lucifer free. You brought all this evil into the world."_

"I didn't know." Sam poured water into the glass and calmly took a long drink.

The voices fell silent.

He had two days until the new moon. Then he could sanctify his blade and kill the bitches.

* * *

Harahel's coal-black hair blew out from the right side of his face, long, thin strands flapping about his head. His little mouth disappeared beneath his beaklike nose and his black eyes held steady, open and unaffected by the wind. He looked like a pathetic old raven flapping a single wing, unable to fly—useless.

"Harahel?" Balthazar spoke softly so as not to scare the old angel.

Harahel quickly turned, and Balthazar met the gaze of Harahel's deep black eyes.

It was Balthazar's job to gather information, to calculate threats. Until recently, he'd done that for Michael, but Sam Winchester pulled Michael down into Lucifer's cage, locking him away for eternity and upsetting the chain of command in Heaven.

Now, Balthazar gathered information and calculated threats for himself. As Castiel had said, it was indeed a new age in Heaven, and Balthazar was formulating a new plan for Heaven, a plan that would keep him in the highest circle of angels. He was the self-appointed adviser to Castiel, the angel whom God brought back from death. Balthazar would make sure that Castiel became the new chief of the angels, the new leader of the Host of Heaven, the one who would occupy the seat of power.

"Harahel, angel of knowledge and wisdom." Balthazar placed a gentle hand on the shoulder of his brother. "What news do you have for me?"

Harahel cast a wary eye toward Balthazar. "I would rather bring my news directly to Castiel."

"That may be, but I will talk with Castiel," Balthazar's forced himself to give the angel a convincingly patient smile. "if the news warrants his attention."

Harahel seemed to waver for a moment, but his mental debate didn't take long. "Dean Winchester came to my Bibliotheque in search of a grimoire. He was looking for a spell." Harahel's clawlike hands drew up beneath his chin. His eyes blinked, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "He wanted a spell to bring a person back from Hell."

"Did you give him the spell?" Balthazar tensed, awaiting Harahel's answer.

"I gave him the book, but I don't think the spell will work." Harahel's hands spread out, his long fingers framing his face, and he shrugged. "Perhaps if Sam was only in Hell it could work, but I don't think it will open the cage." The old angel's eyes sparkled mischievously. "I don't think Dean Winchester will even try the spell. Not the one I gave him."

Balthazar's hand caressed Harahel's shoulder encouragingly. "You've done well, my brother." Balthazar spoke respectfully to the Harahel. Harahel was old and wise. Balthazar knew there would be a battle for power among the Heavenly Host, and Harahel was not without his friends.

* * *

"Son of a bitch!" Dean threw the small spell book, and it sailed across the room like a ninja star. It hit one of Lisa's lamps and sent it crashing to the floor. _Great. Now I'll have to explain that._ "Damn! Damn it!" he yelled into his cell phone, and then he sighed and sank into one of the overstuffed chairs in Lisa's living room.

"_Dean, I'm sorry."_ Bobby's voice pleaded softly in Dean's ear. "_I tried to tell you, son. You're gonna have to leave this one alone."_

"I know, Bobby. But seriously. A sacrifice? A real human sacrifice? I'm supposed to go find some innocent civilian to drain. Someone pure, no less. Where the hell do you find somebody pure? Nobody's pure." Dean felt sick.

"_Son, these spells are ancient. They're from a time when human life was not sacred. Not only that, but you're talking about some very powerful magic. Magic like that don't come cheap. A life for a life, Dean. Them's the rules."_

"Damn, Bobby." Dean's eyes burned with tears of frustration.

"_I'm gonna tell you again, Dean. You've got to stop this. You and Sam have been farther down that __rabbit hole than either of you should go, and you need to be the one who puts a stop to it. Now!"_

"Bobby," Dean said, his voice soft and broken, "there's got to be something else."

"_I mean it__,__ Dean. Stop this! You've lost Sam and that's a fact. You're gonna have to learn to live with it."_

"Bobby..." Dean pleaded.

"_You're supposed to be living a nor__mal life. Isn't that what you promised Sam?"_

"Yeah," Dean whispered.

"_Well, normal life deals with death. Normal life doesn't get to bring people back from death. Normal people don't get do-overs, Dean, and you and Sam have had more do-overs than any living soul. Hell, you've had more do-overs than God!"_ Bobby's sigh was a heavy sound as it came through the phone line. "_I expec__ted a bolt of lightning after that one."_

"Hell, we all deserve one, I guess."

"_Why don't you come out here for a few days? We'll talk about it. You can tell me about your life with Lisa and Ben. I'd like that."_

"Thanks, Bobby. I may do that. I don't know right now." Dean's eyes closed and moisture squeezed out between his lashes. "I need to think about it. I just need some time to deal." He closed the phone, cutting off the call before Bobby could say any more.

* * *

Bobby sat in his office. He was surrounded by stacks of books and papers piled high on the desk, the side tables, the mantle, and every available space. Bobby Singer could hunt and find any monster or demon—even angel—this awful world could throw at him, but the Winchester boys had been throwing him the toughest curves all their lives.

Now, here he sat, his head in his hands, stuck between the brothers. He was deceiving Dean, keeping alive the lie that Sam was still in the cage. He knew he was wrong to do it, but he promised Sam. And like Sam, he wanted Dean to have a chance at a happy life. It just might be his only chance.

As if that wasn't enough, every time Bobby thought about Sam, his gut clenched tight. Sam's brief time as Lucifer's meat suit, having Satan himself possessing his body and two weeks in the cage, at the mercy of the devil—Sam Winchester wasn't the same. He would never be the same, and Bobby missed the boy who learned to love books in this library.

Bobby had known Sam since he was little—four, maybe five years old. Sam read _The Hobbit_ and _Lord of the Rings_ right here, in this very room, and they shared their love of Tolkien. Bobby taught Sam Latin and Greek, spells and incantations. He could remember the first time Sam recited the exorcism from memory. He was maybe ten.

Bobby loved that small boy. Even though Sam made mistakes, disastrous mistakes, he loved the very large man that small boy became, and he would still love the obviously broken man who came back from the cage. Bobby's love for Sam and Dean was unconditional. They were like the sons he never had.

Bobby raised his head and scrubbed his rough hands across his face, wiping tears from his raw eyes. He sighed deeply and gazed into the cold dead ashes in his fireplace. He figured he'd been through his own hell with the Winchester boys, but he'd keep going as long as they needed him.

* * *

"_Take care of Sa__m." John Winchester's words echoed in Dean's mind, just like they'd done for more than twenty years. "Take care of your brother." _

_Dean pictured Sam sitting on the hood of the Impala. "You're gonna let me do this?" Sam's voice was surprised._

"_It's not on me to let you do anything." Dean felt white-hot fear deep in his soul. The thought of going through this with Sam, walking with him toward certain death __and knowing he would spend an eternity of torture in the cage with Lucifer—it was almost more than Dean could bear. _

_He put on a brave face for Sam. "I'll back your play… It goes against every fiber I got. Truth is, watching out for you, it's kinda been my job, you know? More than that, it's kinda who I am. You're not a kid anymore, Sam, and I gotta quit treating you like one. Maybe I gotta grow up a little too." _

"Dean?"

_I gotta grow up a little. Grow up a little..._

"Dean?"

Ben's soft voice broke through Dean's thoughts and he opened his eyes to see Ben standing next to the broken lamp. "Mom's gonna be pissed." He bent down and picked up the book Dean had thrown.

"Don't!" Dean jumped up from his chair, but he slowed his steps. He reached out his hand and, with a gentler voice, said, "I'll take that." Then he smiled at Ben. "You should watch your language."

"Okay. But still." Ben looked down at the broken lamp. "We should clean this up."

"Yeah. Thanks."

* * *

It hardly seemed fair. Alta couldn't keep her eyes off of Sam Winchester. It was impossible not to notice him whenever he came into a room. He stood out. It wasn't just that he was at least a head, if not head and shoulders, above everyone else, but it was everything else about him. It was the way he moved. His long legs carried him with quick economy of movement that could only be considered graceful. When he entered a room, he was immediately aware of everything and everyone—a quick and systematic assessment that left him totally in control. The complete confidence showed on his face.

Sam Winchester was tall, with broad, muscular shoulders. Strength and power radiated from him like the rays of the sun. Alta's eyes were drawn to him like magnets to metal and there was nothing she could do to stop herself. Even if she wasn't looking at him, her mind was acutely aware of every move he made, and her body reacted to every sound he made. It was beginning to really piss her off that she couldn't control herself. She was like a lovesick teenager. It was ridiculous.

When Alta went back to the Elbow Room, she intended to get away from everyone and have a little alone time. She especially wanted to get away from Sam. Hustling a little pool was a good distraction, and making a little money at the same time wasn't a bad idea. She told herself it had nothing to do with Josh and that, even though it was sweet when he sang a song for her, it didn't really impress her.

She told herself she was _not_ going to the Elbow Room to see Josh, but when she got there, she found herself searching the stage before she scanned the people playing pool.

"Where's the band?" Alta asked the bartender as he poured her a whiskey.

"No music tonight. Sorry."

"When are they playing again?" Alta took a sip, feeling the burn of the whiskey flow down her throat and an instinctive apprehension crawl down her spine—hunter's instinct.

"You mean Josh and Brian?" The bartender watched her face for acknowledgment. "They took off, I guess."

"Took off?" Alta queried.

"Didn't show up—let's see—maybe three nights ago? Haven't heard from them since." He shrugged. "Musicians. Most of them are half crazy."

"Wait. You're saying these two guys just disappeared? Didn't give you any reason for quitting?" The apprehension that crawled down her spine clenched in her gut. This didn't feel right. "Did they get another gig? Better pay?"

"Sweetheart," he gave her a sympathetic look, "that's the way musicians are. Here today, gone tomorrow." He topped off her drink. "Any particular reason you're asking?"

"No. I'm just surprised. I…thought they were good." She took a large gulp, feeling the burn and a weakness in her knees—only a little bit from the alcohol. "I kinda knew Josh. He didn't strike me as being that flaky—to just run off from a gig like this. You sure he didn't call or say anything about leaving?"

The bartender snorted a smile. "Maybe you didn't know him as well as you think."

"Maybe not," Alta mused, as she downed the rest of her drink. "Thanks," she muttered, and she left money on the bar to cover her drink and a hefty tip. Maybe Josh and his partner were just flaky musicians and took off for a better gig. She didn't have any reason to think otherwise, but something niggled at the back of her brain, her hunter's brain. Something didn't seem right.

* * *

Dean gazed at Lisa's face as the warm candlelight danced across her cheeks and twinkled in her soft brown eyes. When she smiled at him, he couldn't help the smile that bounced back at her from his lips.

"You didn't have to take me out to dinner." She sipped from her glass of water and gazed at the menu.

"Yes, I did." Dean's gaze remained on Lisa.

"The lamps were old, Dean, and you gave me a good excuse to replace them."

"It's not just about the lamps, Lisa." Dean looked up as the waiter approached their table.

They both ordered prime rib with roasted potatoes and asparagus. Lisa picked out the wine, which Dean didn't particularly care for, but he drank it instead of beer because Lisa wanted it.

"You deserve a night out." Dean reached across the table and held Lisa's hand. "I wanted to wine and dine you." He could see the way she responded to his smile. There was something more in her face than sympathy, concern, or pity—something he hadn't seen in her face since before the apocalypse—and he liked the way she looked at him.

He liked the way it made him feel. Liked that he felt like Dean Winchester again. Liked that he belonged here and he had a purpose. He could have a family again with Lisa and Ben, someone to look out for. It hit him like a revelation. He would always have Sammy with him and he would never give up, but it would not consume him, and he would not compromise. Some things he would not do, not even for Sam. He would live this life, this gift he knew he didn't deserve. But that's the whole point of a gift anyway. It's something you don't deserve.

The prime rib was rich and tender, the first food he'd actually tasted since—he couldn't remember when he last enjoyed food. "This is fantastic!" Dean told Lisa through a mouthful of roasted potatoes. She giggled.

He worked his way through the meat and potatoes between glances and smiles at Lisa. When he finally made it to the asparagus, his enthusiastic chewing slowed considerably and he reached for his wine glass to help wash the green stuff down. The dry red wine seemed to coat his mouth with fur and draw any moisture he had right out of his tongue. He swallowed hard. Lisa snickered and pushed his water glass closer to him.

"I'll have to work on the asparagus and the wine." Dean grinned around the rim of his glass. "Must be an acquired taste."

"Or maybe next time you just get a beer and salad to go with your meat and potatoes." Lisa took a small mouthful of her asparagus. "You don't have to change, Dean. I just want you to be happy."

"Some things I want to change." He stood and held out his hand. "Would you like to dance?" He knew he looked good in his dark gray suit, and the sage green tie set off the green in his eyes. He'd dressed just for Lisa, and he could see in her eyes that he'd got it right. She appreciated the way he looked.

When Dean led Lisa onto the dance floor, he couldn't have been prouder. She was beautiful and graceful, and she caught everyone's eye. Her little black dress clung to her in all the right places. It was sleeveless with a scoop neck that dipped low, showing off her neck and a sea of beautiful skin leading down to the perfect swell of her breasts. A single diamond hung from a silver chain, sparkling like a beacon, inviting him to explore. The low back of her dress hung open all the way to her waist, and Dean laid one calloused hand on the soft skin of her lower back. He felt her shiver and he couldn't stop his immediate response—white-hot desire pooling deep in his gut. _God, she is hot._ His left hand grasped her right one and he held it against his chest, above his heart, as they danced.

Where in the world Dean Winchester learned to dance like he did, he would never admit out loud, but it was Ronda Hurley. She was the girl he had a crush on in high school, and she treated him like her own personal living Ken doll. He was fourteen, a freshman, and she was a senior. She taught him to dance and open the car door for her. He did everything she asked him to, even when she asked him to wear her pink panties. And in return, she showed him how to explore her body. Ronda Hurley had not walked across Dean's conscious thoughts in years, but this night was full of pleasant surprises.

"You seem happy." Lisa looked into his eyes. "It's nice to see."

Dean leaned in close, pulling her up against his body. "I want to make you happy." He kissed the soft skin beneath her ear. "You and Ben."

* * *

When he pulled the Impala into the driveway, the house was dark. Ben was already in bed as they headed up the stairs. Dean followed behind Lisa, watching as she climbed the steps slowly. The clasp of her necklace included a long silver chain that swung enticingly against her back, and Dean could feel his mouth water watching the way she moved.

He paused at the door to the guestroom, his room. Dean—a guest in her house. "Lisa…"

When she turned to face him, her smile was so beautiful, so warm. He felt his heart slam against his chest. He wanted her.

She giggled and grabbed his hand. "Come on," she whispered as she pulled him down the hall to her room.

She pushed his coat off his shoulders and he shrugged out of it, letting it fall to the floor. As she loosened his tie, his hands circled around her to play along the beautiful soft skin of her back. He liked the warm feel of her, and he loved to feel her body tremble in reaction to his touch.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "I'm not…I might not be good at this."

She stopped and looked at him quizzically.

"Oh. I didn't mean…" Dean blushed. "Not the sex. I mean—I can—I'm good at—I mean..." Dean closed his eyes and cleared his throat. This was a line; they were about to cross a line, and he knew he wouldn't be able to walk away if he crossed this line with her now. He was ready. He was not just ready, he needed this. He needed to love and take care of her and Ben. Dean needed a purpose in life. He needed family. He wanted to be sure she was ready too. He didn't want to build a family—this family—and then lose it.

"Lisa, I want you and Ben, but I'm not perfect. I still have…some…" He struggled to find the right words.

"Dean?" Lisa smoothed the loosened tie against his chest and her deep, captivating eyes drove gently into Dean's heart. "I want this. I want us to be a family. I know it's not going to be easy. I'll help you. We'll help each other."

Dean's breath exploded in a relieved smile and he grabbed Lisa, pulling her into a tight hug, squeezing her body against him.

"Dean," Lisa wheezed. "Dean." She pushed against him. "I can't breathe," she whispered.

He released her, but held her arms, smiling at her.

She laughed, soft and sweet. "Come on, you." She turned, leading him toward the bed.

Dean followed behind her, pulling his tie open and quickly unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled his arms free and left the shirt hanging, still tucked into his pants as he grabbed Lisa and pulled her bare back against his chest, skin to skin. He slipped his hands around her waist, inside her dress, gliding across her abs and up to her breasts.

"God, I've wanted to do this all night," Dean whispered into her ear. "This is the sexiest dress I've ever seen." She gasped and moved her back against his chest as he squeezed and teased her nipples erect in his calloused hands.

"You're gonna stretch my dress," she scolded as she wiggled her butt back against him. She arched and stroked her body against the hard line of his quickly growing erection.

"Let's take it off, then." He slipped his hands back around her body and pulled the straps down her arms, peeling the little black dress off until it fell to the floor. She turned in his arms, reaching up to place her hands on his face, and pulled him into a kiss.

Lisa's lips were soft and Dean could taste the lingering flavor of the wine as he ran his tongue across her bottom lip, sweeping past her teeth and gently deepening the kiss, exploring her sensitive mouth. His hands smoothed up and down her back, and she arched up into the kiss.

She moaned softly as Dean's hands wandered down to the firm, silken-clad cheeks of her butt. He pulled her tight against him and she rolled her body, rocking and stroking his hard erection through the layers of fabric. The contact sent sparks through his body, and he broke the kiss. Lisa was nearly panting—tiny little breaths that mimicked Dean's own.

She began to work at his belt, opening it to get to the button and zipper of his pants. He felt her long fingers working their way into his boxers as he kissed along her jaw and nipped down the long column of her neck. She tipped her head back, sighing, giving him better access and offering herself to him. When he felt her hand wrap firmly around him and stroke, he growled against her throat, rocking into her hand. "Lisa." Dean moaned her name. Suddenly, he had to have her, all of her, right now. Now, now, now, but not like this.

He toed out of his shoes quickly and shoved his pants and boxers down. Lisa played with his body, her fingers trailing along his chest and his belly and teasing his hard flesh as he pulled his legs from his pants, leaving them inside-out on the floor. He groaned as he quickly dipped back down to retrieve a condom from his wallet. She gave him an approving nod. He used his body, gently pushing and guiding as he teased in return with his hands on her body. He worked them to the bed, urged her down and tossed the condom on the mattress.

_God in heaven._ Dean groaned. She lay on the bed, spread out before him clad only in a tiny pair of pink satin panties and black, strappy, high-heeled shoes. Dean knew he'd died and gone to heaven.

"Lisa," he said, breathing out her name.

"Dean?" She giggled as she reached for the buckle of her right shoe.

"Nu-uh." He brushed her hand away. "Let me." He unbuckled the shoe, slowly slipping it off her foot and kissing lightly on her ankle. He took off her other shoe, his lips slowly working their way up her leg. He stopped to lick at the back of her knee and switched to the other leg, licking the sensitive skin behind that knee.

"Dean?" She purred his name, and he alternated his way up the inside of her thighs, licking, kissing and gently biting her soft flesh.

He glanced up at her, grinning. "'S'good, huh?"

"So good," she giggled, flashing a bright smile back at him.

He covered her pink satin panties with wet sloppy kisses, grazing his teeth across the soft fabric and humming against her body. Soft moans escaped her lips and she opened herself wider at his touch. He crawled up her body, tasting her skin on his tongue, dipping into her naval, then tracing a path up her body until he reached her neck and the sensitive spot just below her ear. He pressed into the vee of her legs, rocking against her as he nipped and sucked at her neck.

He pulled up to watch her face—so blissful—head thrown back, little red mark on the pulse point of her neck, thick black lashes fanning out from her closed eyes—so beautiful. He slipped his hand down between their bodies, pushed the pink satin to one side and slipped a long finger into the warm, wet depth of her.

Her eyes flew open and Dean smiled down at her. "Mm-hm," he nodded. "So hot, so ready."

"Yes," she said as she handed him the condom. She watched as he opened it and rolled to the side, handing it back to her with a mischievous grin. She slid the condom on him.

"Oh, God." His eyes closed and he moaned as she smoothed the latex down the length of him, her hand circling him tightly.

She hissed as he slid into her. The heat of her surrounding him, pulling him in, and she wrapped her hands around him, pulling at his hips. He thrust into her, helplessly following the pull of her body.

"Dean—" His name came from her like a chant between soft moans and incomprehensible murmurs. "Dean, Dean, Dean—"

She was lost in the sensations; he could feel it in the way her body trembled beneath him and rose to meet each thrust. And the sounds she made when she called his name sparked through his body, straight to his rock-hard dick, buried deep inside her. He wanted to hear more, feel more, taste more. He wanted to claim her, mark her, make her his.

* * *

Bright morning light filtered through the curtains and played across Lisa's face. She was alone. She ran her hand across Dean's side of the bed—_Dean's side of the bed._ She smiled. She really liked the sound of that, but she wondered where he was.

She threw back the covers and slipped into her PJs. She followed the smell of bacon and coffee downstairs and into the kitchen.

Dean greeted her with a big smile. She loved it. It was a smile she'd never seen on his face before—genuinely happy. His face was shining. He had a dish towel thrown over one shoulder and was scraping scrambled eggs from the frying pan onto Ben's plate.

"Hey. Good morning," Dean greeted her. "Come on. Got a plate for you." He scraped eggs onto her plate on the counter next to Ben's. There was orange juice, bacon and toast. "You got up just in time."

"You made breakfast." She stated the obvious as she sat next to Ben, but she was stunned.

"Yeah, well, me and Ben made breakfast." Dean put the pan back on the stove and poured them both a mug of coffee before he came to a stop in front of his plate, which was across the counter from them. He stood, the stove at his back, and shoveled a fork full of eggs into his mouth, followed by a big bite of toast.

Lisa took her own delicate mouthful of eggs. They were good, done just right, not too hard but not runny. She liked this happy Dean, and she couldn't help but notice the contented look on her son's face. She could get used to this life. A life she'd wanted for a long time.

* * *

When Alta came out onto the firing range to find Sam already shooting, she was close to turning herself around and going right back into the common room of the compound, but that would be absurd, and Sam had already spotted her anyway.

"Hey." She approached as Sam was looking down, loading his gun. His long hair fell around his face and he glanced up at her, his brows raised in a curious look.

"Alta?" he acknowledged, before he finished locking the clip into his Glock. He pulled the slide and aimed at a target fifteen yards away. Alta watched as he stretched his long arm out in front of him, aiming carefully and squeezing off three quick shots into the target. They were clean shots, all in the center of the target.

Sam stepped aside and motioned for Alta to take a turn. She pulled out her Beretta, checked her clip, and pulled the slide. Then she squared off at the target, holding the gun steady and cradled in both hands. She followed Sam's shots with three quick ones of her own. It was not a great feat for two experienced hunters to be accurate at fifteen feet with a sidearm. Both had years of experience under more harrowing circumstances than target practice. This was easy but necessary, and it was usually relaxing; but Alta couldn't claim that this time. She didn't get a relaxed vibe from Sam either.

The practice range had targets at various ranges across a broad open field. Both hunters had brought rifles as well as handguns. Alta carefully loaded her rifle and aimed at a target two hundred meters out. Her aim was good, and Sam nodded approvingly.

"Long range is not my expertise." Sam glanced at her briefly before he loaded and fired.

"What is your expertise?" Alta queried, noting that his shots, while hitting the target, were wide of hers.

"Blades," Sam answered. "All types. I've always liked the fine metal and the feel of a blade in my hand."

"Up close and personal?"

Sam's voice was soft. "I guess you could say that—" It seemed as if he was intending to say more, but he cut himself off.

She raised her rifle and shot at the target again. She could feel Sam's intense gaze on her. She lowered her gun and turned to face him. "I haven't seen you lately. How've you been?" She really meant _where've_ _you been_, but that seemed possessive and she had no right to be possessive.

"Apartment hunting," he answered. "I needed to get out of that motel."

"Did you find something?"

"Yeah. A one-bedroom, furnished. It's small, but it suits my needs."

She didn't know any way to be subtle, so she plunged forward. "Have you been back to the Elbow Room?"

"Elbow Room?"

"Yeah. Where the Furies attacked you the second time. You can't possibly have forgotten. You almost beheaded me by accident. You remember." She was sure he was playing dumb, stalling for time to think. "The bar where you didn't know that I knew you were there."

"I remember. I haven't been back there." Sam loaded his rifle.

"You remember the two guys that played there? Nice music, unplugged? The singer had a great voice. He sang a song for me the night you were there." Sam didn't answer, but she recognized the look he gave her. It was the look that sent Christian scrambling from the room and made Samuel back down, but Alta was sure Sam was hiding something and she refused to back down or be made to leave. Instead, she took a step closer to him. "The night that maybe you were following me?"

"I remember. 'Blackbird.'" Sam fired at the target. His aim was spot-on, perfect. "I wasn't following you."

Alta stared at the target. Sam was better than he let on. "He left," she continued. "Just disappeared. No call, no show." Alta turned her gaze to Sam. "I think that's a little strange. Something about it doesn't feel right." She aimed her rifle at the target. "You wouldn't know anything about it, would you, Sam?"

"I don't know anything about him, except that you slept with him." Alta turned back to Sam. His eyes were stone-cold dead—no hint of any emotion in them. "Do you want him, Alta?"

Alta's blood ran cold. How could he know she slept with Josh if he wasn't following her? She turned her gaze back to the target and fired.

"If you want him, I'll help you hunt for him."

_**TBC**_


	9. I Am Human

_**Thanks to Sam's Folly for continuing to be an amazing beta.  
Many thanks to all who comment and follow this story.**_

_As always, anything you recognize belongs to its owner. CW, Kripke, SPN and the writers, and Brian Buckley Band and Jared Padalecki for an inspiring video._

* * *

**Family Secrets—Prequel: Chapter Nine**

_**I Am Human  
**_

"He's not human. I told you that," Trisiphone spat at her sisters, snakes slithering in her hair.

"He's not one of us. He's not an ancient," Alecto reasoned. She absently reached up to caress one of the snakes slithering in her own hair. "He's not an angel or a demon. He's not any creature I've ever known."

Trisiphone's eyes glittered in the darkness. "Then he has to be human." The snakes in her hair writhed and hissed.

"If he were human, he'd be insane by now—or dead," Alecto mused. "Maybe he's already insane."

"No, I don't sense that. I don't think he's insane." The snakes in Trisiphone's hair hissed louder and spat, responding to her rising stress. They stood out from her head in every direction, straining as if they were trying to break free. "I would know if he's insane."

"He has no conscience, no care about his crimes. He has no guilt, no soul." Alecto was wringing her hands. "That's what's wrong with him. He has no soul. How can you be human without a soul?"

Trisiphone began to run her hands along the snakes in her hair, patting them down and soothing them. "We can't torment him if he has no soul. We can only judge, condemn and torment humans."

"Stop this!" Magaera's voice echoed through the darkness. Small slender snakes slithered calmly in her hair while she stroked the body of a fat one who coiled around her neck. Its dead eyes stared out as a forked tongue slipped out to taste the air. "He's human enough. You saw him bleed. Whatever he is, he can bleed. He can be wounded. He can be killed."

"No!" Trisiphone screamed. "We can't. We don't kill." Her voice fell to a pleading whisper. "We can't murder."

"It's not murder." Magaera ran her hand gently along her sister's face. "It's justice," she cooed. "He deserves to die. He has to pay for what he's done. We have to kill him."

Trisiphone sniffled and whined. The snakes strained violently within the confines of her hair, trembling, spitting and striking out wildly.

"Shhh, my darling. Shhh." Magaera kissed gently along the side of her sister's face, calming her and her snakes as well.

"Magaera's right, my sister." Alecto joined Magaera, soothing Trisiphone. "We have to do this." She flexed her hand, splaying her claws and running them gently along Trisiphone's arm. "There is no other way. We must attack him, and this time we must wound him, cut him deeply. We cannot stop until he is dead."

* * *

Sam had become accustomed to not sleeping. In fact, he considered it a benefit, probably the best of the changes that were apparently a result of being in the cage—or coming back from it. Sometimes the nights were long and quiet, but he had learned to fill the time. He researched, cleaned his apartment, and even did laundry at a 24-hour laundromat not far from his apartment. There was never anyone else doing laundry at three a.m.

The one time a man came in without any laundry, looking at Sam as if he might be an easy target, Sam simply sighed, stood, and glared at the man. He made an unmistakable dramatic flair in warning as he reached for the gun he had tucked in the back of his jeans. The man quickly left, and Sam went back to researching on his iPhone while he waited for his laundry to dry.

Some nights, Sam went walking. It was surprising what you could stumble across in the darkest hours of the night. More creatures lurked in the gloom than even Sam would have guessed, but it wasn't long before there were no supernatural creatures prowling the night within the city except Sam Winchester.

Tonight, Sam researched. He put his iPhone and his car to good use, going to and calling bars in an ever-widening radius, with Josh the singer's apartment at the center.

He thought about Alta. Nearly everything about her was perfect for him. She was a good hunter, a great shot with her pistol and an excellent marksman with a rifle. He already knew she was a tracker and fearless.

She was small, short—too short, really—and Tiny. She couldn't be more than five foot two. But that could be an advantage. She could move quickly. He had already seen her in action against the Furies and the werewolf, and she was impressive. He thought maybe he would challenge her to a workout, hand to hand. That way, he could see just how strong she would be in a fight. He had more than a foot in height and probably a hundred pounds of muscle on her. It wouldn't be a fair fight, but what in the hunting world would be a fair fight for her?

He replayed the morning's encounter on the firing range in his mind. He'd gone out there to be alone as much as to practice. The early morning wasn't a time that many hunters used the range. When he first saw her approaching, he'd been annoyed, but he quickly became intrigued. He liked watching her shoot. She was so in control of her body, and she handled her gun expertly. Confidence oozed from her pores when she had taken up a warrior's stance and fired off three perfect shots, directly to the center of the target. It was beautiful to watch.

Then she had confronted him about Josh the singer. Sam was surprised. Most people didn't challenge him outright, but she showed no fear. He knew how to intimidate people with a hard look, but even that didn't stop her. She barely seemed to notice. She was a brave little woman, and it made him want her even more. She would be the perfect hunting partner. He just had to convince her. And he had to get her away from the Campbells.

She made it clear at every opportunity that she wasn't interested in him, even if his every instinct told him otherwise. She wasn't his type exactly. He generally liked larger women—taller—closer to his height, but she responded to him. There was no doubt in his mind. He could smell her desire for him. He knew she watched him, could feel her eyes on him. Still, she'd sought out another man, and that confused the hell out of him.

She had no relationship with that singer as Sam had supposed. The singer was a one-night stand. Sam knew this because he had confronted the man. It was easy. The guy was a singer, not a fighter. Sam didn't have to do much. He didn't intend to hurt the man, just convince him to stay away from Alta. In the end, Sam never raised a hand or even his voice. He hardly said anything before the guy was assuring him that he would never bother Alta again.

It didn't really fall in with Sam's plan for the guy to quit his job and disappear, leaving questions behind. Apparently he'd intimidated the man a little too much and the questions he left hanging in Alta's mind were all falling on Sam.

But Josh was a singer, and he sang in bars for a living, so Sam knew where to look. It took lots of phone calls and lots of quick trips through lots of bars, but he found the singer. Now Sam knew where the guy was. He just needed to clear up Alta's questions, which meant she needed to see Josh. Sam just had to make sure there was no chance that Josh would be singing her any songs or that Alta would be tempted to sleep with him again.

* * *

Samuel gasped and clutched at his heart. "Damn." He thought he was alone in his office when he absently glanced up and into the dark eyes of the demon Crowley.

"Did I scare you?" Crowley smirked.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Not a problem. I can take care of that." Crowley was nose to nose with Samuel across his desk, his palms flat on the surface, his fingers spread wide. "I protect my investments."

Samuel moved back from the demon's face. "What do you want?"

"I want you to do your job." Crowley pushed back from the desk, folding his arms across his chest.

"I've gotten the clan together." Samuel scrubbed his hands across his eyes. "The clan is closer together than ever, working as a unit, like they haven't done in decades."

"Well, I suppose you get kudos for that. But I don't see you having much control over Sam. Looks to me like he's pretty much doing his own thing."

"What do you mean?" Samuel looked at Crowley with surprise. "He's hunting with us."

"You know he's found a way to kill the Furies?" Crowley smiled as Samuel struggled to cover his confusion. "That's right. Studied hard all night long and found out how to take care of his problem."

Crowley began to pace around Samuel. Samuel hated it when Crowley paced. He revealed little bits of his plan like he was bestowing some infinite blessing—like he was doing Samuel a great favor.

"He plans to take care of the Furies without any help from you." Samuel felt the heat of Crowley's glare. "You can't let that happen. You have to be in on this. It's your chance to let him know you can help him—that he needs you." Crowley waved his hands about. "Show him you're family, and family takes care of each other—all that sentimental crap."

Samuel waited for Crowley to finish revealing the rest of his plan.

"Here's the spell." Crowley reached into his jacket and pulled a folded paper out of his pocket. "Sam has a copy, but don't let on that you know that. Be enthusiastic about being able to solve his problem _and be there_ with the clan when the purification ritual and the summoning of the Furies goes down."

Samuel unfolded the paper, looking at the spell written there.

Crowley nailed Samuel with a hard look. "This has to be a clan thing. "All of you have to do this together for Sam. You can't let him do this by himself. You have to make him think he needs you." A sickening smile crept across Crowley's face.

"Yeah, okay." Samuel dropped the paper on his desk.

"He doesn't need you, you know. But the only way you'll get him to stick with you, the only way you'll get him to trust you, is to make him _think_ he needs you." Crowley's dark eyes gazed deep into Samuel. "That's your job, you remember. That's the deal."

Crowley vanished, and Samuel's lips flattened to a hard line as he picked up the folded paper, turning it over in his hands.

* * *

"What?" Gwyn's face scrunched up in disbelief. "You think Sam's done something to this singer?" She snorted. "Isn't that a bit medieval? I mean, what exactly do you think he did to the guy?"

"I don't know. It doesn't seem like Josh would just disappear like that." Alta was having second thoughts about telling Gwyn her suspicions. They were huddled at a table in the corner of the common room of the Campbell compound nursing mugs of coffee and speaking in hushed tones.

"And why would you think Sam had anything to do with it? You guys aren't dating or anything, are you?" Gwyn gasped and narrowed her eyes at Alta. "Did you sleep with him? Oh my god!" Gwyn threw up her hands. "You slept with Sam!"

"I did not!" Alta quickly grabbed Gwyn's hands and brought them back down to the table. "It's not anything like that. We haven't done anything, although," Alta rolled her eyes, "he's made it clear he'd like to."

"Well, who hasn't he made it clear to? And who wouldn't take him up on the offer?" Gwyn smirked. "We kinda had a moment at the Black Dog, me and Sam." Gwyn rolled her eyes. "But I guess, like with you, it didn't go anywhere." Gwyn was succeeding in making Alta feel rather foolish, like she was jumping to conclusions.

"But apparently you did sleep with this singer. What did you say his name was?"

"Josh."

"Okay, so you did sleep with Josh, and now he's disappeared. Imagine that, Alta. A small-time singer in a small-time bar moves on after a one-night stand." Gwyn splayed her hands out in a small shrug. "Sorry, girl. It's not like it meant anything to you, right?"

"Well—no." Gwyn sure knew how to make her humble.

"And Sam would do something to this guy because...?" Gwyn's hands splayed out farther into a bigger shrug. "I'm just being logical here."

"Right. You're right. I'm just being stupid."

"You've got a thing for Sam. That's what it is." Gwyn smiled reassuringly at Alta. "Oh, honey, who wouldn't have a thing for him? He's gorgeous. Takes my breath away." She suddenly looked up and dropped her voice to barely a whisper. "Speak of the devil."

Alta turned to see Sam entering the common room. His eyes roamed the place until they locked with hers.

"I'm gonna take my coffee and go help with cleaning the guns." Gwyn made her escape, stopping briefly to speak to Sam on her way across the room.

"I found your singer," Sam told Alta as he took the seat Gwyn vacated.

"What?" Alta was stunned. "He's not my singer."

"Well, whatever he is, I found him. I know where he's playing tonight. I'm going to take you there."

She searched his face for some clue as to what was going on in his head. What was his game? But she couldn't see any hint of what he was about. There was nothing in his very matter-of-fact tone of voice. Was he excited? Was he angry? His face revealed absolutely nothing. She had no clue where she stood with him, and it was unnerving as hell.

"No," she finally answered. "You don't need to do this."

"Yes, I do. You practically accused me of—"

"I was just asking. I wasn't accusing you—"

"Yes, you were." Sam's eyes became dark, angry. "I don't know exactly what you were accusing me of. I don't know what you _think_ I might have done, but don't lie." His anger was intense, more than she'd seen in him before, and it was directed at her. She steeled herself not to cringe and hoped the raw fear she felt didn't show on her face.

He leaned forward over the table between them. She couldn't help but lean back as he moved closer. Their movements were subtle, almost in unison, like a macabre dance.

"I found this guy for you and you're going with me. I want you to see him." His face softened, just slightly, strangely needy—something else she'd never seen in Sam. "I don't want you thinking...whatever it is you're thinking."

Sam was right. She had accused him, and even without the word, they both knew what she'd accused him of. Instincts warred within her. He was angry with her. She didn't really know him. She didn't really trust him, but if she was wrong, he deserved the right to prove her wrong. "Okay. I'll go with you."

"Tonight. I'll pick you up at seven."

"Sam?" Samuel's deep voice floated across the common room from his office doorway. The emotion in Sam's face dissolved before he turned away from her to look at Samuel.

* * *

"I've found the answer," Samuel announced, once Sam was in his office and the door was closed.

"Answer to what? The answer to who brought us back?" Sam wore the same emotionless face he usually wore. "And why?"

Sam had effortlessly and without any feeling just knocked the wind out of Samuel's sails. It was hard to get kudos with Sam for finding out how to kill the Furies when he was obviously more interested in a bigger mystery.

"Well, no." Samuel glanced down at the folded paper on his desk. He sighed and picked up the paper, a slight tremble in his hand. "I wish I could answer yes to those questions, but I can't. Not yet." He held out the paper to Sam. "I found a spell, a way to kill the Furies."

Sam took the paper, opened it, and gazed at the writing. "This is good." Sam scanned the words. "A sanctifying ritual for the weapons." He scanned further down. "…a spell to summon the Furies." Sam tossed the paper back on the desk. "New moon. That's tomorrow night."

What a smooth liar his grandson was. If Samuel didn't already know, he would never guess that Sam already knew this.

"That's right. We're gonna do this thing together. My best hunters. You, me, Christian, Gwyn, Mark, Donnie. We'll—"

"And Alta."

"Yes. And Alta, if you want." Samuel stiffened. What was Sam's obsession with this girl? Samuel didn't know exactly what was going on with Sam and Alta, but he didn't like it.

"She's your best hunter. Why didn't you include her?"

That emotionless face. Sam gave nothing away. Samuel thought of Mary, his daughter and Sam's mother. She had been so full of life. Her face was always so full of emotions—joy, happiness, wonder; sometimes fear and anger. Samuel could read her like a book. What would she think of her emotionally dead son?

"I was picking names out of the air," Samuel hedged.

"You were setting up for a hunt, Samuel. You weren't just picking names out of the air."

Samuel couldn't read Sam, but Sam could damn sure read Samuel. It wasn't particularly helpful. "Listen, son. I don't want to fight with you. Quite the opposite. I want us to fight together. I want you to be my right-hand man. I need you."

Sam's eyes narrowed. Finally, an emotion. Samuel recognized the suspicion on Sam's face. He could work with that. At least he knew there was some feeling there, and somehow that made Samuel feel better about his grandson.

"I'm gonna take your word for her, Sam. In fact, I'm sure you'll prove me wrong." Samuel walked around the desk and placed his hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'm sure she's every bit the hunter you say she is. From now on, she's in—on all hunts. And I want you in on the planning, the research—everything." Samuel tried his best to get acknowledgment for this grand gesture from Sam. "We're gonna work together on _everything_." Samuel watched Sam's suspicious face as it eased back into nothingness.

* * *

It was a quiet little bar two towns over. Stella's was upscale, warm and intimate; casual, but not too casual. The two hunters looked slightly out of place in jeans and worn boots. Sam had forgone his favored plaid and instead wore a solid blue button-down shirt with a black jacket. The early summer was too warm for a jacket, but Sam was seldom without one, even in midsummer. A jacket hid things like weapons, and Sam was never without weapons. Likewise, Alta covered a tight, white, sleeveless, scoop-necked pull-over with a well-fitted navy jacket. She was hiding her own 'multitude of sins,' none of which were extra pounds.

They made a striking pair as they entered the bar. Sam could feel eyes watching them, but that wasn't new to him. He always drew attention, and he supposed his six foot four would look even taller next to her five foot two. He didn't mind. It would most likely play right into his plans.

Soft music floated over the small crowd and Sam could tell that Alta recognized the two men playing acoustic guitars. Her lips curled up slightly as she glanced toward the stage. The singer's voice seemed to make her face go soft. She liked it. Sam could tell. He could feel it in her the moment she first heard the music. He didn't understand it and was mystified by the effect the music had on her. He didn't like it, not one little bit.

Sam slipped an arm around Alta, resting his hand at the small of her back and guiding her to an empty table near the small stage. When he pulled the chair out for Alta to sit, he wasn't being polite. He was positioning himself behind her so that he could be seen by the singer, but not by Alta, and the moment the singer made eye contact with Sam, Sam made his feelings clear. He stood possessively behind Alta, looming over her, staring at the singer. He stood tall, his shoulders thrown back, his eyes narrowed, his face dark. Sam's threat was clear.

To his credit, the singer's voice never wavered. Acknowledgment flashed between them, Sam and the singer, but no one was aware except the two men.

Sam took a seat next to Alta and motioned for the waitress. He asked her to bring them a bourbon and Coke and a beer. He watched as Alta swayed a little to the music, still with the smile plastered across her face, her green eyes misty as she watched the singer. "Such a beautiful song," she whispered to Sam.

_Don't you interest yourself  
in the things you cannot change  
'cause one day I will be back around  
one day I won't be lost  
I won't be found_

_I am human  
and I will let you down_

_Don't you marvel at the mountains  
just to question the good Lord why  
'cause one day I will speak my goodbye  
one day we will speak our goodbye  
one day I won't run  
I won't hide_

_I am human  
I am human  
and I will let you down_

_I think it's funny that we say that  
when things don't seem to go our way_

Sam didn't respond. He took several big swallows of his beer. She obviously liked the song. He didn't get it.

"I uh…" The singer's voice cut into Sam's thoughts. "There's a special lady that I promised to sing a song for tonight." Sam's eyes flew first to the singer and then to Alta. _He wouldn't dare._ Murderous anger stirred in Sam's gut.

A bright red blush crept up Alta's neck and across her cheeks. She looked surprised, but then her face fell into confusion and then resigned recognition as the music began—the familiar guitar riff of _Blackbird_.

Alta was staring, not at the stage, but somewhere near the stage. Sam turned to see the man singing to a tall blond woman seated near him. His eyes were locked with hers, a soft smile on his face as he sang. She was beaming up at him, basking in the attention and the song she knew was just for her. Sam couldn't have planned it better. It was perfect.

He turned back to see Alta finish off her drink in one huge gulp. She looked up at him, her cheeks still stained red, but the smile and the misty eyes were gone.

"I've seen enough," she told Sam. "Obviously, I was wrong. I shouldn't have accused you." She stood and he quickly followed her out of the door.

If Sam had a soul, he might have felt guilty, but he didn't. It was necessary for her to see this to make her realize that he didn't hurt Josh—or worse, kill him—and that Josh was only good for a one-night stand. He wasn't worth worrying about.

It wasn't exactly what Sam thought would happen. It was better than he hoped. Now that her questions about the singer were answered, she shouldn't be distracted.

Yet she was, and this was not working out right.

Sam knew she was upset. He could feel her pain. He could see the distress on her face. He couldn't understand what had her so upset. Josh had found another woman to sing to and evidently to make love to as well. The man made it pretty obvious it was his MO. He even used the same song. So why would Alta care? Why would she be hurt? She was free to find someone else, and it's not like they actually had a relationship. They only screwed once. Alta's feelings were a total mystery to Sam.

Sam was clueless about her emotions, but he wasn't stupid. "Alta, I'm sorry." He made his voice soft, hoping to soothe her hurt feelings. They were in his car, heading back home, and he glanced at her as the passing lights played across her face. "I didn't know that was going to happen."

"I know, Sam." She sighed. "It's not your fault."

"Why are you upset?" he questioned. "Did he mean that much to you?"

"No." She glanced out the window. "He didn't mean anything at all, really."

His curiosity was piqued. "Then why are you upset?" Sam was good at figuring out people's emotions and even predicting their reactions. He could smell fear and lust, anger and pain. Those emotions were basic and easy to read. What Sam had trouble with were the more complicated and subtle human feelings. How could that man get Alta so sad after a one-night stand and a simple song in a bar? "Is it the singing? I'd sing to you, but it wouldn't be pretty."

Alta snorted. "It's not that." Then she rolled her eyes. "Well, the singing-a-song-to-me-thing was pretty romantic." Her eyes drifted to her lap and focused on her hands fidgeting there. "Until—"

"Until he sang the same song to another woman?" Sam said, finishing her thought. "Not a smart move on his part. So, are you jealous?"

"No. I'm not jealous." She thought for a moment before she answered. "I guess it made me feel _special _when he sang to me the night after…" Alta looked at Sam. Clearly she'd said more than she intended.

"The night after you slept with him." Sam finished her thought again.

"Yeah. It's silly. I shouldn't have felt that way. I knew I wasn't special. Just one in a long line."

"He's wrong, Alta. He's just a stupid singer."

Sam gripped the steering wheel and glared out at the road in front of them. He was pissed. It was clear to him that he didn't need to threaten the singer like he had. The guy only needed time and enough rope to hang himself. And Sam didn't get why Alta would have feelings for a guy who couldn't see just how special she was.

Sam knew she was special. She was a hunter, and it would be a waste for her to be with a singer anyway. Sam didn't understand why she wouldn't let herself have feelings for _him_. They would be the perfect team.

"You're right," said Alta. Maybe I just don't like feeling foolish, like a silly school girl."

Sam watched her as she turned her gaze out the window, hiding her face from him. He couldn't understand how Josh's stupidity made Alta feel foolish, and he wondered how long this mood was going to last. At any rate, Sam decided that if Alta didn't want him then he wouldn't force himself on her. He pressed down on the accelerator, pushing them well beyond the speed limit.

* * *

Alta laid her head back on the seat and watched the dark landscape pass by the rest of the way home. She felt foolish. Clearly she had been crazy to think anything more of Josh than a passing fling. And then to think that Sam would do something to the man because—what?—he was jealous? It was so 'school girl,' like she wanted Sam to be her knight in shining armor and fight for her. Stupid was what it was. She was so embarrassed she felt like she should kick her own ass.

What must Sam be thinking of her? He was patient. He listened. He was kind even, and he didn't gloat over the fact that she was wrong or that he was vindicated. He never even mentioned it. She felt so petty. She'd tried to deny her feelings for Sam, tried to find a way around them, and it backfired on her—big time.

Alta felt like a fool, and she didn't see how Sam could possibly have any respect for her now. _Well, __h__ell!_

_**TBC**_


	10. Learning to Fly

_**I'm sorry to be so long posting this chapter. I sent PMs to those of you who Fav and Alert this story so you already know my tale of woe-my crashing computer. The Geek Squad could not retrieve my data from the HD and so I had to rewrite the chapter. l hope that the rewrite is worth the wait.**_

_**I thank Sam's Folly for the great work she does in beta'ing for me. You're terrific!**_

_**Anything within this chapter that you recognize belongs to its rightful owner/creator, Kripke, SPN writers, Peter and Gordon for the song Woman**__**.**_

* * *

_**Family Secrets: Prequel-Chapter Ten**_

_**Learning to Fly**_

_Josh's crystal-blue eyes were so beautiful, his soft face framed with light hair. His soulful voice seemed to penetrate to the depths of her. She could feel her body react to the music and she was lost in it, floating aimlessly, lulled away into nothingness. _

_**Woman do you love me?  
**__**Woman if you need me then believe me  
**__**I need you to be my woman.**_

_His voice was velvet-soft in her ear, calming her, rocking her like a baby. Josh's calloused but gentle hands caressed her and she felt her body move against him in response. The pleasant feel of his warmth and the sweet spirit of his desire made her feel fluid, boneless, and it soothed her deep in her soul._

_**Woman do you love me?  
**__**Woman if you need me then believe me  
**__**I need you to be my woman.**_

_Josh's voice changed. Suddenly it was dark and urgent, lacking the soulful depth of the singer. His blue eyes turned darker—angr__ier__. Dark hair framed his face—Sam's face. __The voice was no__ longer Josh's voice__. It was__ Sam's__, and his__ eyes pierced to her soul__. S__he could feel her desire for him like fire—__like__ burning flames licking up to devour her. His face loomed before her. His hands held her arms in a __viselike__ grip. He was dangerous, but God help her__,__ the scent of him filled her head, and she wanted to lean into him just that last little distance that separated them. She wanted to feel his lips on hers—his smiling lips __that were__ taunting her __and__ daring her, __along with his__ perfect white teeth __and__ beautiful dimples._

_**Woman don't forsake me.  
Woman if you take me then believe me  
I'll take you to be my woman.**_

_She could feel the weight of his body pushing her down, covering her, surrounding her, blocking out everything but him—his burning-hot skin against her skin. Her hands slid along his body, __her__ fingers exploring him __and skimming over__ smooth hard muscles. She felt white-hot power flowing from him, searing into her body__,__ and her own heat rose up to meet it._

_She could feel the smooth glide as his hard body pushed into her, filling her, stoking her desire until her whole body hummed and burned in response. She heard his low moan when he held her to him and she felt him pulsing deep inside her. His voice echoed in her dream. _

_**I'll take you to be my woman.**_

Alta gasped, bolting upright in bed, panting, lust burning her body. The wet sheet, soaked with her sweat, fell away from her. She was naked. Sometime during the night, she'd thrown off her sleep shirt. She looked down at her breast, tingling with desire, and felt the heat of that desire coiling low and deep. Her tongue ran along her dry lips. She slid her palms across her tight, hard nipples and sent sparks of fire directly to her core. The soft moan that escaped her lips seemed to fill the quiet room.

She slid her hands down her body, moving ever lower until she drove her fingers through her thick, dark hair and into her wet center. Her fingers slid through her own silky heat—so smooth—and she thought about the feel of Sam deep inside her. She circled her fingers around her begging nub. She felt his hard muscular body surrounding her, saw his dark, demanding eyes claiming her, and she shivered.

Alta lay in her bed and stared up at the ceiling. It was obvious she was not going to get Sam Winchester out of her punched out a joyless laugh. After the encounter on the firing range when she practically accused Sam of murder and then the way she acted like a lovesick schoolgirl over Josh, she was certain that whatever feelings Sam had for her were long gone.

A hot shower did Alta a world of good, and she responded to Gwyn's text that she should get her ass in gear and get to the compound. Apparently something big was happening. When she entered the common room, she nearly collided with Christian, but they both stepped back quickly enough that they didn't actually make contact. A low growl came out of Christian's angry face. She would have said she was sorry to anyone else, but she'd long ago gone beyond her limit of 'sorrys' with Christian. The two of them moved around each other, eying each other with disdain before Christian headed toward the far side of the room to work on munitions with Richard.

Alta poured a mug of coffee and joined Gwyn and Mark at a small table near Samuel's office.

"What's got Christian's shorts all in a wad?" Alta glanced back toward the group cleaning weapons and loading ammo.

"Samuel's had Sam holed up in his office all morning and Christian's been in a funk about it the whole time." Gwyn smiled. "Looks like your boyfriend has taken his place as Samuel's right hand."

"He's not my boyfriend," Alta hissed.

Gwyn eyed her, assessing her. "How'd the date go?" She smiled. "You look all calm and satisfied this morning."

Mark snorted, grinning.

"What is this? High School?" Alta snapped. "It wasn't a date."

"He took you out for drinks at a bar. It was a date," Gwyn patiently informed her cousin.

"Fine. Think what you want. You will anyway." Mark and Gwyn exchanged knowing looks. Alta rolled her eyes.

Sophia strolled in and sidled up to Mark, who reached his arm around her hips and drew her in close to him, kissing at her stomach and grinning up at her.

"What's going on?" Sophia asked.

"Appears there's gonna be a hunt. Something big." Mark answered.

"Sam and Samuel have been locked away in his office all morning. I'm thinking it has to do with the Furies," informed Gwyn. Then she looked at Alta. "The ones that like to have got Sam last time in the parking lot outside the Black Dog, when he was busy _not_ being your boyfriend."

"Are you mad at me or something?" Alta watched Gwyn's features carefully. "Are you jealous?"

Gwyn flinched. "Of course not. Just trying to get at the truth."

"Let it go," Alta warned. She was not in the mood to be teased, and if Gwyn was jealous, if she did have feelings for Sam—worse, if Sam decided to return Gwyn's feelings—God help her. Alta did not even want to think about it.

* * *

The Impala had developed a rattle, and one thing Dean Winchester wouldn't abide was an unexplained rattle in Baby's engine. Whatever was causing the rattle must be investigated, found and fixed.

"Hand me a box wrench, would ya, Ben?"

"Um..." Ben shifted his soccer ball under his arm and squatted down beside Dean's toolbox. He stared at the assortment of tools and wondered which one was a box wrench. Maybe it should be square? Like a box?

Dean looked up and saw the puzzled expression on Ben's face. He walked over and knelt beside the boy. "Let me show you."

...

"_Dean, hand me a box wrench, would ya?" John's voice floated over to his son from under the hood of the Impala. _

_Dean sat, butt on the cold floor and back against the paint-peeling wall of the workshop at Singer Salvage. Five-year-old Sammy sat beside him, huddled in the worn black jacket that Dean had outgrown last year. Sam's little fingers barely peeked out of the sleeves as he traced each word on each page of the book he was reading to Dean._

_Sam knew all the letters and numbers by the time he was two. Dean had taught them to him, because Dean thought that everything he learned, Sam should learn too. Never mind that he was four years older than Sam and Sam was too young. It didn't matter, because Sam followed Dean everywhere, copied him, and did whatever Dean told him to do. So, Sam learned everything—colors, days of the week and how to read—right along with his big brother._

_It started out with Dean reading to Sam. By the time Sam was three, he was reading along, and by the time he was four, Sam was reading by himself. But Dean instinctively understood that reading time was more than reading and stories. He came to realize that Sam craved the attention and the touch. He needed to be held and cuddled like any little one, and John wasn't very good at that. John was easily distracted away from his sons' needs. He was distracted by his own need—his obsession to hunt and find the thing that killed his wife, to find the thing that ruined all their lives. It was reading time with Dean that gave Sam the physical contact that he needed, and it never occurred to Dean that he needed that attention and contact just as much as Sam did._

"_Dean!" John's voice cut through the air like a knife, and Dean sighed. Sam's hazel eyes gazed up at him through his tousled bangs. He was pressed in close to Dean, bodies seemingly meshed together even through the thick canvas jackets they wore. Dean's arm was wrapped around his baby brother. _

"_You keep reading," Dean said to Sam. He pointed to the Impala and their dad's body hanging across the fender, head buried in the engine. "I'll be right there. Right where you can see me."_

"_Okay, Dean," Sam's soft little voice answered._

_..._

"Okay, Dean. I think I got it. That was cool." Ben flashed a greasy grin at Dean. They'd spent the afternoon tuning up the Impala, and Ben learned hands-on not only what a box wrench was, but also a socket wrench, a valve cover, an intake manifold and a carburetor.

"Well, come on then. Let's take her out for a spin and listen to her purr."

"Can we go get pizza?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "That is your favorite food, ain't it?"

Ben grinned and nodded.

"How 'bout we go for a burger this time? Let's go wash up and let your mom know."

Dean took Ben to a diner downtown. No fast-food burgers for Dean. He wanted a burger freshly made, patted out thick and grilled to order. That was good eating, and he'd finally convinced Ben that it was way better than McDonald's.

"Mm-mm." Dean hummed his appreciation of the fat, juicy burger through a mouthful, while Ben dunked a french fry in ketchup.

"Hey Dean? Are you still a hunter?"

...

"_I know why you keep a gun under your pillow. And I know why we lay salt down everywhere we go." Sam startled Dean with this revelation. He wasn't supposed to know. He was too young to know._

"_No, you don't!" Dean spat angrily, as if he could make Sam somehow magically not know._

_Sam threw John's journal on the nightstand between the two motel room beds. "I know what Dad does. He's a hunter. He hunts monsters. Monsters are real."_

_Dean stared at the journal and then at the frightened look on his brother's face. He thought he should deny it. Maybe he could make Sam believe that Dad wasn't a hunter and monsters weren't real because...because... Dean froze. How could he deny what Sam had obviously already read—what Sam already knew was true? He'd seen it in Dad's own handwriting. Dean couldn't make Dad out to be a liar._

"_Are you gonna be a hunter too?" Sam asked._

"_Yeah. As soon as I'm old enough." Dean sighed. He was proud. What could be better than to be a hunter like Dad? It's all Dean wanted. Dad was like a superhero. But Dean was touched by the look on his brother's face, and saying those words made Sam look as if Dean had slapped him. Sam's face changed from frightened to terrified. _

"_Don't! Don't leave me, Dean."_

_..._

Dean chewed his mouthful of burger more slowly as he watched the questioning look on Ben's face. Ben's face wasn't frightened like Sam's had been, but Ben was older and didn't know the things that Sam had known long before he was fourteen.

"I'm a mechanic, Ben." Dean's answer didn't sound so sure, even to his own ears.

"I know, but are you still gonna hunt?"

"No, Ben. I'm not gonna hunt."

"But you're still gonna try to find Sam, right?"

Dean stared at the boy.

Ben didn't know. He only knew that Sam was gone. He didn't know what had happened, and so he'd filled in the blanks himself the best he could. Ben didn't know Sam was in Hell. He didn't know the sacrifice Sam had made for him, for Dean, for the world. Nobody knew. Dean placed his burger on his plate. He felt sick. His stomach rolled.

"Yeah. I'm still gonna try to find Sam." Dean's voice was rough and he swallowed hard. "I guess I'll always be a hunter...but...we're gonna be a family. I'm not gonna leave you and your mom."

* * *

Black eyes watched Sam—an aged face, pinched into a ponderous nose and a tiny little mouth. Harahel's coal-black hair hung loose off the left side of his head. He was far above the Campbell compound watching this little human drama unfold. The ancient angel was quite sure that whatever he could find out about Sam Winchester would prove useful to him, no matter who took the Seat of Power in Heaven, either Castiel or Raphael.

When Harahel saw Sam arming himself, it was evident that he was up to something. Harahel's tiny little mouth strained to make something resembling a smile. He flexed his dark wings. Wherever Sam went, Harahel would follow and when the time was right, he would hover over Sam and spread out his wings. Whatever ritual Sam was about to perform, whatever help he was seeking, Sam Winchester would not be heard by Heaven. Harahel would make sure of that.

* * *

Sam stood at the open trunk of the Charger. He checked his pistol and placed it in the back of his jeans. His mind was on the ritual they would perform tonight. He slid his silver butterfly into his pocket. It was doubtful that the small, elegant blade would be of use, but he liked to carry it, liked the feel of it. Somehow it seemed special. He put on a wide leather belt and hung his large machete from it. He gathered extra bullets and his rifle, checking to see that it was properly loaded.

The others had already left in Samuel's van, taking the long route by road that twisted around the edge of the Campbell property and through forest-lined country roads to an abandoned and forgotten warehouse. Sam had found the place one brightly-moonlit, restless night.

As he walked through the still, hot, late-afternoon woods to meet up with the clan, he felt a sudden chill, as if a dark cloud passed over him. He looked up into the bright afternoon sky.

"Castiel?" Once again—one more time—he called out to the angel. But there was no response. Castiel either could not or would not help him.

* * *

This was it. This was what Alta loved. It's what she lived for—hunting, and everything that went with it. Hunting for monsters was steeped in ritual and she loved the ritual of it as much as the actual kill.

The clan members for this hunt had been hand-picked by Sam and Samuel. Alta knew that the hunters they chose were considered to be the best. They were all going after the Greek Furies, the creatures that threatened to kill Sam.

The clan gathered at the back of Samuel's van as he and Christian passed out the weapons and ammo. Gwyn eased up beside Alta, looking deep into her cousin's eyes. She caressed Alta's cheek and tucked an imaginary stray hair behind Alta's ear. Both women had tied back their long hair.

"Are we good?" Gwyn asked. It was important that any ill feelings not come out on the battlefield.

"Always." Alta reassured her, and she felt Mark's gentle hand on her shoulder.

Alta had her Beretta, already loaded with silver bullets, so she declined the pistol that Christian offered her. In addition to a pistol, each hunter was given a rifle, a machete, and, for those who were skilled with it, a bow and arrows.

Alta watched Sam when he came out of the edge of the forest alone, a rifle over his broad shoulder and a long machete belted to his side. His face was drawn, deep in concentration, and she felt as if a shadow passed over them. Sam glanced up as he approached the hunters and a knowing look passed between him and Samuel, but he didn't acknowledge Alta or any of the other hunters.

They filed into the warehouse and positioned themselves according to plan in a large circle in the center of the main room. Samuel stood at the north of the circle and Gwyn at the south. Christian stood to Samuel's right and Donnie stood at the eastern point. Sophia was next in the circle between Donnie and Gwyn, and to Gwyn's right stood Alta. Mark stood at the western point, and between him and Samuel stood Moreene.

Each hunter watched silently as Samuel moved behind them, drawing a chalk circle around the outside of the hunters and enclosing them into what would become a sacred space. After the circle was complete, Samuel joined Sam in the center where Sam was squatting down, drawing an intricate pattern of symbols. His head was bowed and his hair fell forward, obscuring his face, but Alta could hear his soft deep voice as he chanted. When he finished, he placed a silver bowl in the center and filled it with herbs—yarrow, hyssop, vervain and oil of abramelin.

Sam took a large bundle of sage, tightly bound together so that it resembled a very fat cigar, and it the end of it, letting it flame and then blowing on it so that it smoldered and smoked. The sweet smell of the herb rose with the smoke as Sam carefully fanned it over Samuel's body, chanting softly a Latin incantation, a litany of purification. Samuel held out each of his weapons so that they, like himself, could be purified by the ritual.

Sam went to the other hunters and stood before each one, reciting the litany. Alta closed her eyes, breathed in the sweet smell, and felt Sam's voice rumble through her soul as he bathed her in the sacred smoke. When she held out her weapons to be purified, he briefly locked eyes with her. They were the same dark eyes of her dream—not angry, but so intense they sent a white-hot spark through her body. She let out a tiny gasp.

There was a tiny pull at the side of his mouth. Alta was unsure if it was the hint of a reassuring smile or if he was smirking at her weakness and God help her, she couldn't stop the blush that blossomed across her face.

The smoke from the sage filled the room in long white curls that floated upward toward the heavens, carrying the incantations with it. Samuel took the sage from Sam and began to recite the litany. Sam pulled out his gun, holding it out for Samuel to purify, then laid it on the floor at the southern point of the circle in front of Gwyn. He did the same with each of his weapons, one by one, laying them out in a row.

Each movement he made was thoughtful, slow and graceful. The hunters were all silent. There was only the low sound of Samuel's chanting. Sam stepped away from his weapons and walked with Samuel, unarmed, to the center of the circle.

It hit Alta like lightening, firing up her insides in panic. Suddenly it was clear. This was a ritual sacrifice. Each of the hunters had been purified and armed. Sam had been purified and _disarmed. _Sam was the sacrifice.

As it had been done for centuries in the distant past, the hunters were guarding the chosen one. They were supposed to offer up the sacrifice and watch the gods devour him. She felt sick. She glanced around at the faces of the other hunters and wondered if they knew. If this was real, Sam would be gutted or beheaded. Her hand wandered to the handle of her machete, and she gripped it tight. _There was no fucking way._

Sam stood over the silver bowl of herbs. He was enveloped in the smoke from the sage as Samuel completed the process of purification and threw the burning sage into the herbs. Samuel's voice changed, becoming deeper, edgier, no longer the soft hypnotic chanting. Sam held out his hands and threw his head back, baring his throat.

Alta's eyes grew large, her heart began to race, and it was all she could do to hold back the gasp that threatened to escape her lips. As Samuel laid his machete against Sam's throat, she lost her battle of self-control. She shifted nervously and made one step forward before she saw Sam's hand rise toward her, palm out in an unmistakable gesture for her to stop. She stopped dead, sick with the sight of this ritual.

Slowly, with just the slightest of pressure, Samuel drew his finely honed blade across the bare skin Sam offered, the tender skin of his throat. Sam leaned forward, so that the blood flowing from the shallow cut fell on the smoldering herbs—the symbolic sacrifice. Alta blinked and swallowed hard. Samuel stepped back to his place at the north of the circle, and it began.

A cold shiver ran down Alta's spine when she heard hissing and rattling behind her. It was the unmistakable sound of snakes. She turned to see the floor beyond the circle writhing with a mass of serpents. Alta froze as her unreasonable fear of the slithering creatures rose up in her throat like bile, threatening to choke her.

"They can't cross the line," Mark yelled out. "They can't be on blessed ground." The hunters were safe within the circle, but they were trapped.

Alta turned back to the center and saw Sam standing alone. Smoke from the herbs curled around his body and he held out his empty hands, threw back his head, and offered himself up to the Furies.

There was a sound of beating wings, and the room glowed blindingly bright when the Furies appeared. Their shrill voices pierced through Alta's ears, and she fought to keep from falling to the floor and covering her ears to stop the pain that shot through her head. Instead, she pulled out her pistol and tried desperately to aim, but her eyes burned from the brightness and she couldn't focus through her tears.

The Furies shrieked and dived at Sam, their long, clawed hands ripping and tearing at him, just as they had done before when they attacked him. Alta saw him quickly duck to the floor, offering up his back and shielding his vulnerable stomach and chest. She locked her eyes on one of the Furies, following it up as it circled above for another dive at Sam. Pistol in hand, Alta could see it well enough. She had it in her sight when she heard the sudden, deafening roar of hundreds of wings. She was enveloped in a swarm of small, winged creatures all beating against her, nearly knocking her to the floor and throwing her aim off the Fury.

It was pure bedlam within the warehouse. Sam was crawling slowly toward his weapons as the Furies dive-bombed him repeatedly, claws ripping across his back. Christian stood over Samuel's hunched body, batting away at the swarm to protect the clan's leader. The younger hunters all batted at the little flying bastards and fired wildly toward the Furies through the swarm. None of them could take good aim and none of the bullets hit target.

Alta watched one of the Furies hover over Sam. As the small snakes slithered through her hair and framed her angry face, one giant snake slithered down the side of her body toward Sam. It's long, muscular body coiled around Sam's neck, jerking him up, pulling him higher, holding him defenseless as the other two Furies dived toward him, clawed hands reaching and eager to rip him apart.

Alta took off at a dead run toward Sam, batting her way through the swarm of little flying creatures. Sam clawed desperately at the snake's body that was tightening around his neck. She could see Sophia running toward Sam, machete drawn. The determined scowl on her face sent a chill through Alta.

Sophia jumped on Sam's back, reached up, and started hacking the snake in two. Its giant head curled up to bite her, but Alta had drawn her machete, and using both hands, she gave a mighty swing, putting all her power behind it to sever the creature's head.

The Fury shrieked as the snake fell limp, followed quickly by the dead Fury. The two women quickly ducked and slashed out with their machetes as the two remaining Furies attacked.

One of them grabbed Alta by her hair, curling its clawed hand around her ponytail and quickly lifting her high into the air. The pain that shot through Alta's head was so intense she could feel the burn of every hair pulling at her and she thought she knew what it felt like to be scalped. As her hands flew to her head, her machete clattered to the floor.

Alta could see the other Fury below her diving for Sophia, but it dropped quickly as Mark intercepted it with a stab of his blade directly into the creature's chest.

The snakes that surrounded the hunters were nearly gone, and the little winged bastards had thinned to less than a swarm. The hunters stood below Alta on the floor of the warehouse, all crowded around Sam and looking up at her. No one was able to get a clear shot. The Fury held Alta like a shield.

When Alta looked down at the hunters, she could see Sam. Blood flowed down his neck and soaked his shirt, which hung in shreds. It had been torn apart by the claws of the Furies. Blood stained the floor around him, and he leaned heavily on Donnie as he stared up at her.

The Fury growled and shook Alta hard by her hair. Alta screamed, but in spite of the intense pain, she grabbed her pistol, pulled it from its holster, and cocked it, aiming over her shoulder at the sound of the growl and firing.

The Fury let out a piercing shriek. Its clawed hand released Alta's hair, and she fell along with the dead Fury. She hit the floor rolling desperately trying to keep from re-injuring her foot. Somehow she managed to save her foot, but as she rolled to a stop at the feet of the hunters gathered in the center of the room, her head banged against the floor and everything faded to black.

* * *

"Morning."

Sam raised his head, quickly scanning the room. When his eyes fell on Alta, he laid his head back on the pillow and closed them. He was lying on his belly, face turned toward her. "You okay?" he asked without opening his eyes.

"I'm fine. Doc Carson wanted to keep me for observation, just in case I might have a concussion." She answered him from a small cot set up next to his hospital bed.

They were at the Campbell compound. If he didn't already know that, the stench of the ancient building would be a dead giveaway, although the infirmary also smelled of fresh antiseptic and the lingering odor of old blood.

Sam had lain quietly through what was left of the night after the hunt. He had been evacuated to the infirmary for Doc Carson's treatment. The doc had given him pain meds that made him groggy but didn't bring sleep. Sam had kept his eyes closed and steeled himself during the debridement of his wounds and the thirty-seven stitches, counting every one of them. He was glad when the treatment was finished up and he felt bandages covering his wounds.

Alta had assisted Doc Carson during the procedures. Sam felt her small, gloved hands on his back and heard the two of them talking as they worked together to treat his wounds. After about half the stitches were done, Sam realized he could feel the difference in Alta's fine stitches, the way she quickly but gently pushed the needle through his flesh. She used shorter pieces of thread, changing the needle more often so that it was sharp and pulled through faster and easier. Sam had done his fair share of stitches over the years. He began patching up Dean and his Dad after hunts when he was twelve, and he appreciated Alta's delicate hand.

Finally, he spent the rest of the night listening to Alta breathe the rhythmic breaths of sleep. He heard her turn and occasionally moan, and he listened to her quick, short breaths and watched the rapid movement of her eyes under closed lids when she dreamed. He knew the moment when her breathing evened out and her eyes stilled as she drifted deeper into dreamless sleep.

Alta broke into his thoughts. "I really think Doc just wanted someone else here to help keep an eye on you." There was amusement in her voice. "That way he didn't have to stay with you."

"Thanks," Sam conceded. "I saw you hit your head. Are you okay?" He slitted his eyes open to watch her now—awake.

"No concussion, but that bitch nearly snatched me bald. It hurt like hell!" Alta gingerly ran her hands through her hair. "You ever been hung by your hair? I think it's actually a couple of inches longer now."

"No, but I've been hung by a snake."

"Oh, yeah." Alta huffed out a small laugh. "Bet that hurt."

He snorted. "It wasn't fun." He pushed up on one arm, intending to turn to a more comfortable position, but as he did, he pulled on the stitches, and a searing pain ran across his back. He eased himself back down on the mattress.

Alta was quickly at his side. She brushed his hair from his face and then trailed her hand lightly down his back. She was so close that he could smell the scent of her, the faint smell of soap and the clean smell of her body—no flowery perfumes to mask what was natural. Sam liked that.

"Sorry. Don't try to get up yet. You need to take it easy."

"Yes." Doc Carson's booming voice came from the door as he entered the room. "You got a right healthy-sized gash on your back and one on your side. Lost a lot of blood before I could get to you."

Sam looked up into the crisp blue eyes of the doctor. "Thanks for your help."

"You'll be fine. No major organ damage. The wounds are all cleaned, but I've given you antibiotics along with fluid, just in case." He patted Sam's shoulder with one hand and ran the fingers of his other hand along the IV line that snaked it's way down from a half-full bag of fluid into Sam's arm. "Soon as this fluid has run in ya and you're hydrated, you'll feel better." Doc Carson gave him a half smile. "You'll be a little weak for a day or two." Sam grunted and the doctor nailed him with an intense stare.

"No hunting." The doctor waited for Sam's reaction. Sam didn't give him one. "Not for the next few days."

"When can I leave here?"

"You got a couple of hours to finish this fluid and then we'll just have to see how quickly you gain your strength."

"I'll be fine," Sam responded dryly.

Doc Carson patted Sam's arm. "Be patient son. You just finished a battle with a bunch of... what were they?"

"Greek Furies," Alta supplied. "Nasty creatures. Snakes all in their hair—"

"Yeah, well, you need a little downtime, both of you." He turned to Sam. "You stay in bed." His eyes rested on his patient for a moment, assessing him. "Do I need to sedate you? 'Cause I will."

Sam eyed the doctor grudgingly. "I'll stay."

"In bed. Resting." Doc Carson narrowed his eyes at Sam.

"In bed," Sam relented. "Resting."

Doc Carson turned his attention to Alta. "I'll be back in a couple of hours. You know what to watch out for." He eyed the IV in Sam's arm. "Call me if you need me sooner." He handed her a small bottle of pills. "Give him a couple of these if he needs anything for pain. I just put a little something in his IV. He should sleep."

Sam waited until he heard the door closing behind the doctor and he knew, once again, that Alta was the only one in the room with him. "Why are you here?" he said to her. "You're not hurt. You're not concussed. You're good to go."

She pulled a chair next to his bed so that she could sit and he wouldn't have to strain or twist his back to see her. "Someone has to keep an eye on you, Sam." Alta smiled at him, and Sam knew that it was the truth, simple and honest. Someone should watch him, and she did what needed to be done for no reason other than she was needed.

He gazed at her. Her dark auburn hair was draped around her shoulders, and her crystal-green eyes were looking back at him—so honest. He trusted her. She was the only person he knew that he trusted. He'd come to understand that when it came to Alta, what you see is what you get. She had no ulterior motives. She wasn't hiding anything.

"Thank you." He ran a finger along her face. He wanted her, but he reminded himself that even though he felt conflicting signals from her, she'd made it clear she didn't want him. It made him want her more.

"Do you work with Doc Carson often?"

"I used to." She tucked her hair behind her ear. He watched her blush, just a tiny hint of pink sneaking its way up her neck. "When I was younger, before I started hunting, I helped him all the time. He didn't want me to hunt. He wanted to send me to college, pre-med and then to med school. He said someone had to take his place and he wanted it to be me."

"You didn't want that?"

"I liked it. All hunters need to know battlefield triage." She looked away. "I guess I know more than most—better at it than most because of the time I spent helping the doc, but I wanted to hunt."

"You don't regret it?"

"No. I'm a hunter. It's what I am."

"You're a damn good hunter, Alta Campbell."

* * *

"Take it. The Seat of Power is yours. God-given." Balthazar couldn't understand Castiel's reluctance. "All of the angels believe this. They all believe that God himself saved you."

"He did," Castiel replied.

"Of course he did." Balthazar placed a gentle hand on Castiel's shoulder. "God meant for you to sit on the Seat of Power, and because God chose you, all of the Heavenly Host is yours to command. But you need to take power quickly, while the angels are in awe of you."

"No. This was all about free will. Why won't you understand this?" Castiel stared hard into his older brother's eyes. "I don't want to command them. I want to offer them free will. Each angel must choose his own path."

"Cas," Balthazar's voice was patient, as if he were speaking to a child about something far beyond his understanding, "the Holy Host is an army. The angels are soldiers. They must be led. They were made to follow and they will not be happy until they have a leader. That leader has to be you. You are God's chosen."

"No. He chose me for a different task."

"The Winchesters?" Balthazar's patience began to slip. "They've served their purpose. We are finished with them."

"No. We owe them." Castiel's crystal-blue eyes were determined.

Balthazar began to realize the battle of wills he would have with his brother. "We owe them nothing. They made their choices with their 'free will' and we have no further use for them."

"You're wrong." Castiel suddenly looked very sad. "We gave them little choice. We used them, drew them into the midst of our war and left them broken. What we did was not righteous."

"They're humans, Cas. Insignificant beings." Balthazar tried to reason with his brother. "They're useful for just a short time. The Seat of Power is for time without end. Raphael will not remain docile about this for long, and the angels will not remain in awe of you. The time is ripe. You must take power now. You are the only one who can keep Raphael from seizing power."

Harahel cleared his throat and approached the two angels reverently. Balthazar turned in irritation toward the approaching angel.

"I've found Sam Winchester," said Harahel.

Balthazar's irritation softened.

"He's on earth, living among his mother's people, the Campbells. He's hunting with them and he appears strong and healthy."

"That can't be," Castiel protested. "I would know if he were on earth."

"What? Why? Why would you know?" Balthazar looked incredulously at his younger brother—apparently his younger, foolish brother. "You didn't!" Balthazar was filled with pain and regret. "You didn't claim guardianship over him?" Balthazar had not planned for this. "How could you do that?"

"It was the righteous thing to do," Castiel responded softly. "He needed me. The Winchesters needed—deserved help. I believe that's what God saved me for."

Balthazar shook his head in denial.

Castiel raised his chin defiantly. "Sam Winchester is not on earth. I can feel him. I can hear his tortured soul crying in Hell."

Balthazar turned his gaze to Harahel. "Are you sure you saw him?"

"Quite sure," Harahel responded. He bowed up his tiny mouth under his ponderous nose, and his eyes narrowed and sparkled with amusement. "It seems that this Winchester is in both places. On Earth and in Hell."

"I've never heard of it. Is that possible?" Balthazar quizzed the older angel.

"Not for a human, but there are spells that could be used by something more powerful, something very much older and infinitely more powerful than humans. Perhaps an angel or a demon, maybe an ancient one or one of the pagan gods." Harahel's little mouth smiled. "I've never seen such a wonder as this either, but I would say that Sam Winchester is indeed split between Earth and Hell."

_**TBC **_


	11. A Heart Worth Breaking

_**I am so sorry to be so long in posting this chapter. Thanks to everyone for your patience.**_

_**Many thanks to Sams Folly for beta'ing this story. I appreciate all your wonderful suggestions and the encouragement you give me. You are a saint.**_

_**Thanks to all who take the time to comment. It means so much to us writers to get comments.**_

_This is the last chapter of the prequel. I hope that you enjoy it. The second half of this chapter is a rewrite of Chapter One of Family Secrets. It is different enough that those of you who have already read Family Secrets will find it to be worth the reread, (I promise!) and if you haven't read Family Secrets yet, you can skip directly to Chapter Two of that story after this chapter. _

* * *

**Family Secrets: Prequel – Chapter Eleven  
_A Heart Worth Breaking_**

"No wait. Wait!" He reached out for his brother. The sound of angel's wings filled the air. "Wait, Castiel." Blathazar's hand fell to his side and he breathed out a heavy sigh. Castiel was gone, and Balthazar stared at the empty space his brother left behind. This was not helping Balthazar's plan. He had major damage control to do.

Balthazar turned an angry eye toward Harahel. The old angel looked smug and rather pleased with himself. "What have you done?" Balthazar accused. "You should have brought this information to me."

"I thought Castiel should know about this new and rather strange phenomenon, that the Winchester boy is split between Hell and Earth." Harahel shrugged and his beady eyes mocked Balthazar. "Obviously, there is great power at work here, and Castiel is the new leader of the Heavenly Host; is he not?"

Balthazar took a deep breath. He flexed his hand at his side. Harahel caught the bright glint of his angel blade as it slipped into place in Balthazar's hand. His eyes flew wide and his tiny little bow of a mouth opened in a silent scream as the blade pierced through his chest.

Balthazar held up the frail, old body, skewered on his blade. "You know too much," he growled, and then he withdrew, watching Harahel's body spark. Bright light pulsed out from the wound and shone out from Harahel's eyes and mouth, finally exploding out from his body. Harahel's grace blew away into oblivion, and the angel died.

Balthazar could salvage this. He could still make his plan work. He turned his eyes heavenward. _Castiel will sit on the Seat of Power. He will lead the Host of Heaven._

* * *

Castiel watched the hunters, grandfather and grandson—both of them oddly wrong—human, but not human.

Samuel was in his midfifties, but his soul was much older. Castiel could see it now. It was the brave and self-confident soul of a leader, yet it was deeply scarred and twisted. This soul had seen evil, journeyed to great depths and returned. Castiel closed his eyes and breathed deeply the scent of Samuel's soul. His head tilted curiously to the side and he tasted the evil. Samuel had been almost completely demon, but restored to his humanity, at least outwardly. Castiel could sense the demonic evil and the very human desire for goodness warring inside this man. He could smell hellfire buried deep—hidden deep in this soul.

Something very powerful restored this soul and brought this man back to Earth. Passable as human, at least he could play at being human and fool people into believing it. Samuel was under a tremendous debt, and it weighed heavily on him. He was owned. Castiel sighed. It seemed Sam was in great danger, and he turned his attention to his friend.

Castiel watched Sam as his grandfather crossed the infirmary and stood by Sam's bed. Sam had been wounded. Castiel could see the gash across Sam's back, skillfully stitched together and slowly healing. Castiel's eyes flowed along the scar. It should be painful for Sam, and Castiel should be able to feel that, but he couldn't. This was very curious. This shouldn't be.

Castiel could feel every bit of pain, fear and grief that tore through Sam's soul. He constantly heard the cries and screams in his mind. Sam's soul in Hell had become a part of Castiel, like a wound—a cancer deep inside him. Castiel could always feel Sam's soul.

Now, here in this place, Castiel could see Sam but he couldn't feel him. He hadn't even known Sam was on Earth until Harahel had told him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to catch the scent, the taste of Sam's soul. But the disconnect between Sam and his soul was complete. This Sam had no soul. Without his soul, he functioned instinctively. He was neither evil nor good. He lived purely for self.

Castiel was amazed. He'd never seen anything like this. In all the time since the beginning, no human ever existed in such a state. There was no guilt, no fear. Castiel could sense it, could see deep inside this empty man—this shrewdly calculating individual. Castiel saw everything in Sam, but he saw no compassion, no love.

Castiel was deeply disturbed. He would have to watch this Sam very closely, even as Sam's soul screamed ever louder from Hell in pain and sorrow. Not only was Sam being tortured in Hell, but here on Earth he was in danger from Samuel and whoever owned Samuel, and Castiel feared that Sam's soullessness presented a great danger as well.

* * *

Samuel wished he could feel some connection to his grandson. Sam must have been a beautiful boy. He was a strong, impressive and handsome man. He favored John more than Mary, didn't look at all like the Campbells. Sam had dark hair and smooth creamy skin—not pale—and dark hazel eyes rather than the light blue or crystal green that were common among the clan. Samuel knew Mary would have loved her boy. She gave her life for him. Samuel choked back the bitter lump in his throat that was his love for his daughter and regretted not being there for Mary's children.

Sam was brave. Samuel would have to give him that. The ritual they'd done to call the Furies was risky. Samuel would never have asked a hunter to face such creatures unarmed, set up as a sacrifice. It was too risky, but Sam had insisted it was the only way. They'd argued long and hard behind the closed doors of Samuel's office and Sam had refused to back down. In the end, they did it Sam's way, because Sam would have done it with or without Samuel and the clan.

Samuel was no fool. He was well aware that it was partly the skill and determination of the hunters, but also partly pure luck that had kept Sam from being killed. "That was a near disaster," Samuel growled at Sam. "We're damn lucky we didn't lose anybody on that one."

"It went according to plan," Sam replied calmly.

"Yeah. You look like the plan went well." Samuel motioned toward Sam's back. "How many stitches? Thirty? Fifty? Pretty significant blood loss, too. Was that part of the plan?"

Sam didn't answer.

"And Alta hanging by her frigging hair twenty feet in the air? Was that part of the plan? The fall could have killed her." Samuel stared at his grandson.

Sam returned the stare. "She's fine."

Samuel's eyes narrowed as he tried to read his grandson. "I thought you had feelings for her. You sure seem to hold her in high regard, but you played kinda fast and loose with her life, don't you think?"

"She's made it quite clear she's not interested in me, if that's what you mean." There was no anger in Sam's voice, no regret. He simply stated a fact, like it made no matter to him one way or the other. "Still, she's a good hunter. She showed great skill."

Samuel felt cold looking at Sam. There was no passion in those eyes, not for love, not for life. They were empty eyes. _How does a man live like that? _Samuel shivered. He'd rather have the pain, the hideous memories—rather be owned by Crowley—than be empty and unable to feel.

"Well, it's good you had family on this one. You wouldn't have survived the Furies without the clan. You know that, right? It took the whole team working together." Samuel searched for some flicker of emotion, but Sam stared back at Samuel with his hollow eyes. Samuel gave a deep sigh, one that made its way up from his wounded soul. "You were right about Alta...and your hunch about Sophia was a good one. They both did well—proved themselves to be excellent hunters. You picked a good team."

"Yeah." Sam's eyes showed the tiniest bit of acknowledgment, like it just now occurred to him how close he'd come to death and how much he owed the clan. He nodded. "It's good."

Samuel shook his head. He wasn't sure how good it was, but it was definitely an adventure. He didn't know if he'd ever get used to being around this man, let alone control him like Crowley expected.

Sam abruptly changed the subject. "You got any leads on a new job?"

"Yeah. Mark's found what looks like a vamp nest. Random disappearances, exsanguinated corpses. Most likely, they've got some hostages they're feeding on." Samuel looked over the man lying prone on the bed in front of him, the scars and stitches that crossed his back open to his view.

"I'm good to go." Sam pushed himself up from the bed, ignoring the pain, holding his face expressionless.

"Oh, no you're not!" Alta called from the door, where she'd just entered with a carryout bag from the nearest deli. "You're not going anywhere with _my_ fresh stitches in your back, not for at least a couple more days." She quickly crossed the distance from the door and laid the food on a table near the bed before she rounded on Samuel. "Doc Carson said at least a couple of days. Sam's full of pain meds and he hasn't had enough time for his blood to build up yet."

Samuel held his hands up in surrender. "Okay. Whatever you and the doc say." He gave Sam a meaningful look, brows raised and lips curled in a small smile. "I'll leave him in your capable hands."

* * *

Sam watched as Samuel left the room. Then he turned a murderous expression to Alta. "I don't need you to fight my battles." He threw Alta's own words back at her as he picked up his shirt and began jabbing his arms into the sleeves in angry, jerky movements, again ignoring the pain as the action pulled at the stitches.

Alta moved to stand in front of him. She took the edges of his shirt, holding them firmly in her hands. She stared up at him apparently unfazed by his anger and quietly said, "Touché."

Sam smirked and his anger softened. He began to button his shirt, working his way around her hands until she let the fabric fall from her grasp. "I'll give it a little more time," he finally told her.

She cocked her head and raised one brow.

"That's the best you're gonna get," he said.

The determination in her face faded and she turned to the food she'd brought.

It was moments like this that confused him. He got mixed messages from her. One minute, she was fearless, standing up to him. The next minute, she would turn away, not fearful but resigned. The smell of her desire for him rolled off her in unmistakable waves, but the minute he tried to get close to her, she turned cold.

"I brought you some food. You must be hungry. Broth and juice isn't enough to keep up your strength." She began opening the bag of food, pulling out a croissant filled with meat from the deli. "I have ham and cheese here and I have roast beef, too." She pulled out the second sandwich.

"Roast beef sounds good." He sat at the table as she opened the sandwiches, placing the roast beef in front of him along with a bottle of water.

"Thank you." He watched as she finished unpacking the meal.

"I have soup, too." She pulled out two Styrofoam containers. "Italian wedding and chicken noodle." She gave him a questioning look.

"Italian wedding." He frowned. "Don't you have family wondering where you've been?"

"I'm sorry. Am I bothering you hanging out here, keeping an eye out for you? 'Cause Doc Carson has other patients he needs to see. He can't just sit here watching you for a couple of days."

Apparently, Sam had touched a nerve. He watched her as a light blush crawled across her face. She sighed and looked at him, her big green eyes honest and trustful. He marveled at the range of emotions she could go through in such a short time.

"I don't have family wondering about me," she admitted. "My parents died when I was young. They were killed on a hunt. I live alone." She looked down at her soup. "I don't even have a pet."

"My mother died when I was six months old." Sam watched as sympathy joined the host of emotions on her face. "My dad died a few years ago. I don't have family either." He didn't mention Dean. He thought it would serve his purpose better for her not to know he had a brother. He wanted her to think he was as alone as she was. "It seems we have more in common than you might think."

"What? No pet?" She gave a small chuckle.

"No. No pet."

They ate in silence for a while, but he was beginning to learn that it wasn't like Alta to remain quiet for long.

"They have the best breads at Main Street Deli," she said. "I love their croissants, don't you?"

Sam nodded, chewing on his sandwich.

"And the soup." She rolled her eyes, smiling at him. "I'm actually glad you took the Italian wedding, because the chicken noodle is my favorite."

He swallowed his bite of sandwich and followed it with a few spoonfuls of soup. "I'm gonna hunt those vamps with Samuel," he announced.

"Sam, you can't."

He didn't respond, just looked at her.

"You shouldn't," she corrected. "You're full of pain medication. It's dulled your senses. You're reaction time will be off."

He stood and dug deep into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a handful of pills that he laid on the table between them. "I didn't need these, so I didn't take them. I have a high threshold for pain."

"Your stitches—"

"I heal fast." She looked as if she was going to continue to throw up arguments, but he raised his hand. "I'm fine." Her mouth clamped shut. Once again defiance morphed quickly into resignation. Another thing to her credit, Sam thought. She knew when to quit. "I know the old man. He'll have a group together and he'll head out in the morning. I'm going out with them."

Alta nodded, took a sip of her soup, and motioned for him to sit. "Eat. You need to build up your strength." She shoved her sandwich at him. "Eat mine too. I'm not as hungry as I thought."

* * *

"I just think it would be good if you could talk about it. A professional could help you sort through your feelings." Lisa handed Dean a mug of coffee and motioned for him to sit at the kitchen counter with her.

"No!" Dean huffed out a deep breath and steeled his features to hide the anger he felt.

"You're having nightmares, bad ones, and they happen a lot, Dean." Lisa was, as always, that mysterious combination of gentle, strong and wise that Dean was drawn to. She shot straight and she usually hit the mark. "You seem to drift off sometimes. Ben's noticed it too. Are they flashbacks?"

"I dream about Sam sometimes and maybe I get caught up in memories. I lost my brother, Lisa." Dean wanted to scream—wanted to hit something or someone. Despair knotted with anger deep in his gut. "Sam's—" Dean bit off the words. Lisa didn't know. She thought Sam was dead. She didn't know that he was still alive, in agony, in Hell being tortured by Lucifer.

"I know, Dean." Lisa's soft voice was meant to soothe, but it heaped more frustration on Dean.

"No, you don't know, and I can't talk about this, Lisa. Not with you, not with a...a counselor, not with anybody. Not yet." He looked at her. "Please. Just back off. Give me a little time."

"I think it will help to talk it out. I want you to get better." Lisa's eyes were dark, demanding. She wouldn't give up on this. But Dean wasn't ready to let go either. He wasn't ready to let Sam go. He would never let Sam go. In his heart, he knew he couldn't.

"I'm sorry. I can't." Dean turned to walk out the back door. "I'm going to work on my car." He paused and turned back to her. "Please. Just...just..." He trailed off with a whisper and was quickly out the door.

* * *

"Hey, Dean." Ben's quiet voice sounded from the garage door. "Something loose under the hood again?"

Dean looked up from the Impala's engine to see Ben standing in the doorway, soccer ball tucked under one arm. "Seems like something's always loose and rattling." Dean gave a little smile.

"You want some help?" Ben's voice and eyes were so hopeful. He needed Dean, and Dean knew how to be what Ben needed.

"Yeah, I could use some help." Dean offered the cloth he was holding to Ben. "You want to check the oil for me?"

"Yeah." Ben dropped his soccer ball and reached for the cloth.

Dean needed this. He needed Ben. Maybe with Ben he had another chance, a chance to get it right. Maybe he wouldn't fail this time.

* * *

Sam Winchester was the most stubborn man Alta knew—had ever known. He was single-minded. If there was a hunt, he was laser focused on it. He was the best damn hunter she'd ever known. He was fearless to a fault. The whole thing with the Furies—setting himself up as a sacrifice—was risky, more than was usual for the clan, but maybe she was a little impressed by that.

As she followed Mark into a back window of the old abandoned barn, Samuel, Sam, Gwyn, Sophia and Christian went in the front to challenge the vamps and pull them away from the captives so that Alta and Mark could evacuate them. She could hear the vampires hissing and screaming, could hear the sounds of battle, the thuds of bodies hitting floors and walls, the grunts and groans of the fighters, the ring of steel blades, the shuffling and stomping of feet across the floor. She heard Samuel's voice calling out to Sam, and Gwyn was calling out for Christian.

Alta and Mark were in a back room, separated from the battle. Alta knelt at the door of a large cage while Mark watched to make sure they were still unnoticed by the vamps. The cage was old, the lock ancient and easy to pick. It took Alta only a moment to open the door. As she stepped inside the cage, Mark guarded the door.

There were bodies just inside the cage, two of them. One, a young woman, couldn't have been more than twenty. Alta quickly felt for a pulse and felt none. She moved on. Another, a man, was clearly dead, but she checked for a pulse just to be sure. The third person she found was a teenaged boy, obviously alive, but he could barely focus on her. There were bite marks on his arms and neck and blood stains on his shirt. The vamps had fed on him, probably several of them, several times. He was weak but strong enough to struggle a little.

"Shh." She tried to get him to focus on her to calm him. "I'm gonna get you out of here."

"Alisa..." He tried to turn to look behind him. "Please..."

Alta followed his eyes to a girl lying behind him. Alta heard a weak moan. The girl was alive but appeared too weak to move. "Is that your girlfriend?" She whispered to him.

"My sister," he answered.

"We're gonna get her out too." Alta stood and pulled the boy up with her. He leaned heavily on her as they stumbled together out of the cage. Mark reached out to take the boy, but Alta motioned with a jerk of her head back into the cage. "Get the girl in the back of the cage. You'll have to carry her." Her eyes met Mark's. "The first two are dead." He nodded and ducked into the door, making his way around the two bodies quickly.

Alta watched as Mark emerged from the cage with the girl in his arms. She was not looking forward to hoisting these two weakened teens out of the back window. There was a sudden eerie quiet in the old barn. Mark was staring toward the door to the main room. She realized the fight was over and turned to see what had Mark's attention.

Sam's large frame was filling the doorway. He was wet with sweat and blood. His chest swelled as he heaved deep breaths. His fist clutched tightly around the hilt of his machete and blood dripped from the blade. He gave her a questioning look.

"Two survivors, two dead," she said, answering his unspoken query.

At that moment, Alta Campbell _thought_ she understood Sam Winchester. He was as good as he said. Strong enough to fight and unwilling to wait another day. Another day she was certain would have been the death of the two survivors.

As Sam lifted the boy from her back, she _thought_ she understood Sam's passion for the hunt.

* * *

Sam stood in the shower letting the hot water cascade over him, washing away the sweat and blood. The force of the water across the gash still healing on his back was painful, but the heat was soothing to his aching muscles. He felt good. He needed the rush from this hunt. It was a good one.

It was a good size nest of vamps, twelve of them that the hunters had taken out. Sam clenched his hands. He could still feel his blade, feel it striking muscle and bone and sending a shock wave up his arm. He could still see the blood flying out of the bodies as he struck them, feel it spattering across his body. He closed his eyes and relived watching as the headless bodies fell lifeless at his feet. The smell of old, dead blood still curled in his nostrils, but these vamps would never taste blood again.

He dressed quickly after his shower and stopped at the pub below his apartment to grab a sandwich before heading to the compound. All the hunters would meet for a debriefing after cleaning up and Sam wanted to hurry and get it over with. The high he felt from the hunt was fading, and he wanted to find another hunt as quickly as possible.

* * *

"Sam?"

After the debriefing, Sam was on his way back to his car when he heard Alta calling him. He turned to face her. "Alta?" He stood motionless, waiting. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for.

"Let's go for a drink, Sam. It's been a long day. Couldn't you use one?"

"Yeah. Good idea." He motioned toward his car and headed for the passenger side to open the door for her. As he walked behind the car to the driver's side, he wondered if he really wanted to do this with her. He'd planned to research, find a job, possibly even hunt again tonight. He slid into the seat and started the car. "I guess everyone's heading out to the Black Dog." About the last thing he wanted to do tonight was hang out at a bar full of drunk hunters.

"Yeah. But let's not go to the Black Dog. It'll be crowded. Let's go someplace else."

He glanced at her. She smiled, and he looked back at the road. She was doing it again, sending out confusing messages. If he didn't know better, he would swear her smile meant something—that she wanted something more from him than just a friendly drink. But he'd been down this road with her too many times already.

"I know a pub where we can get something to eat," Sam suggested. "It's not far. Unless you just wanted to drink or hustle some pool."

"No. A quiet supper sounds nice." Alta looked down at her hands in her lap. She was doing it again, coming on and backing off. Sam suddenly kind of liked this absolute mix of emotions that she was. He could play this game with her. He decided he would win this game. He would win this game tonight.

As they ate, Alta told him a little more about herself. She talked about growing up with the clan. Learning to hunt. It occurred to him that he should talk about his life in return, but what could he tell her that she didn't already know? He hunted. It's all he did.

She looked at him expectantly, so he told her some of Sammy's memories. He talked about training with Dean and Dad, moving from town to town and school to school. He told her about Stanford and Jess, how he was going to ask Jess to marry him. He watched as Alta's emotions played across her face. He liked this game more and more. He told her how Jess died and how he started hunting again. He told her about the wreck and Dean being in a coma and Dad dying.

It was like sadness overload and he could feel her become uneasy. He could see her start to pull away from him again. A new emotion welled up inside her. She was just a little afraid of him. Maybe he was being just a little too needy and he needed to back off just a bit. He didn't want to scare her off again.

He felt excitement begin to rise in him. He was beginning to love this game and he realized that this whole thing with her was not unlike a hunt. It was a feeling, the only feeling he could have—a primal instinct that came from somewhere other than the soul. The thought of hunting her was thrilling.

The more thrilled he became, the more apprehensive she became, like a scared little rabbit—a brave, scared little rabbit. He noticed it, drank in the feeling, then grabbed it and pushed it down deep. He steeled himself just like he did for a hunt. He needed to be calm. He wasn't going to stop this time, not until he won, but he wanted her to want him. He wouldn't force himself on her.

"Would you like to come up for a drink?" He gave her what he hoped was an innocent smile.

"Up?" she questioned. He could see that she was forcing herself not to show the little hint of fear she felt.

"My apartment is upstairs. That's how I know about this place." He tilted his head just slightly to one side. His smile was just enough to bring out slight dimples but not to look insincere.

"That sounds nice, Sam." She seemed calmer.

He put money on the table to cover the tab and stood, holding out his hand. He held her hand as he led the way up the narrow stairs.

Once in his apartment, Sam moved to the kitchen area and poured her a drink, although he didn't pour one for himself. When he turned from the counter to face her, he took just a moment to look at her. She was pretty, this woman he'd become so used to looking at. Her hair was thick, dark auburn and long with just a little curl around the shoulders. She had a long oval face and crystal green eyes. She was more than pretty. Alta was beautiful. Her smile was stunning. Sam might have known this if he'd had a soul, but beauty, like art, is appreciated by the soul.

He walked slowly to her, handing her the drink and standing just a little too close. He was head and shoulders over Alta and he knew he was too close, knew he was staring down at her, knew he was too quiet. He was intimidating. He wanted her to feel his power, wanted her excited. He sensed her fear. He could smell it and taste it. She was so expressive, her emotions so strong. The excitement began to rise in him again. He knew she could feel it. They fed on each other—his excitement, her fear and excitement.

She moved back a step. Was he was losing her? Was she backing off again?

"Don't," he whispered as he caught her arms, halting her retreat. "I won't hurt you." He tried to calm her. Once more, he pushed down his excitement and calmed himself. The primal feelings were strong, intoxicating. He couldn't love; he didn't even like. But he lusted after her, and he lusted after the hunt, and it felt good.

"I... " It seemed that, for once, Alta was at a loss for words and Sam smiled.

He put his hands to either side of her face and gently, slowly raised it up to meet him, lowering his lips to hers. His kiss was soft, gentle. He held his strong desire in check. Anything not to frighten her. He broke off the kiss and searched her face, judging her reaction. Her eyes slowly opened and she smiled. _Good._

He kissed her again. His tongue reached into her and tasted her desire. He drank it in, hungry for more. Desire fed on desire, and he teased her tongue until she tentatively licked into his mouth, tasting him in return. It was wonderful. The heat of her mouth was a tantalizing preview of the heat of her body, and he wanted to be inside her _now_.

When he broke off the kiss, he pulled her tightly against him. He rested his face on the top of her head and laced his fingers up through her hair, bunching it up around his face. He smelled her desire and breathed it in deeply. Her warm hands rested on his chest, slowly circling and caressing him through the fabric of his shirt. He wanted to feel her hands on his skin.

"Alta?" he questioned.

"Hmm?" she answered through a blissful haze.

She seemed to want to remain in this embrace. He wanted more, but he didn't want to frighten her away, so he waited. Slowly, she began to move against him, swaying her body against his. He thought it was an unconscious movement of her hips across his. That slight movement got an immediate reaction from him. The feeling was intense. He moved back against her, rolling his hips across hers.

Her hands on his chest suddenly pushed away from him, and she looked up at him, the lustful haze clearing. He quickly moved his hands down to her hips and held her against him.

"Don't!" she protested.

He released her hips and sighed. She gave him a nervous smile and held up the drink she still had, a quizzical look on her face.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to push you." Sam wasn't sorry. He didn't know how to be sorry, but he knew how to regroup. He knew how to hunt. It's all he knew how to do. He would give her space. He would continue to play this game. He would wait for her next move.

He walked over to the counter and, with his back to her, he asked. "Would you like another drink?"

"No, I'm fine." He heard her glass as she set it on the coffee table. When he turned, she had removed her jacket. He was quickly beside her and took the jacket, hanging it in the closet and doing the same with his.

"Why don't you show me around your apartment, Sam?" She was stalling. He could feel it.

"There isn't much to see." He gestured around the room. "The kitchen and living area." She glanced around his apartment. It was clean and neat. Extremely neat. It was bare actually, devoid of any knicknacks or memorabilia—no pictures—nothing. She thought is was odd. It had no personality.

He walked over toward the bedroom door. "Would you like to see the bedroom?"

She hesitated. He could almost read the debate going on in her head. "Yes," she gave him a tentative answer, but it was enough for him.

He pushed the door open, and she walked past him into the bedroom, and he closed the door behind them. She turned and he immediately pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against him.

She'd finally made a decision. Sam could smell it. He could feel it. He recognized the symbolism of her coming into his bedroom. It meant she wanted in his bed, and there was no way he would let her run now. He trailed kisses down her neck and breathed in the scent of her desire. His hands reached for the hem of her shirt so that he could trace his fingers under it, along her skin, as he pulled it up over her head. He watched as her hair spilled out of her shirt and back down around her shoulders.

He felt a white-hot surge of primal desire. He wanted his flesh touching hers, and it seemed at last she wanted the same thing. She was quickly unbuttoning his shirt. Finally, she was not denying her feelings for him. Sam groaned, a deep rumbling sound, and whispered softly in her ear. "You want me." She shivered as he lightly traced his tongue along the shell of her ear.

Sam couldn't remember feeling like this before. He'd felt lust. He'd had more than a few one-nighters with willing women, but this was different. What he felt in her—what he was smelling and tasting—the emotion in her was more than lust. If he had ever felt anything like this before, those feelings belonged to Sammy, and the feelings weren't quite the same. This was not Sammy's. This was his.

He shrugged out of his shirt, letting it drop to the floor, and as he reached down to unfasten his belt, he looked at Alta, making sure she was okay with this. She reached for her own belt in answer and they watched each other undress.

"You want me," she teased. He pushed her, and she pulled him toward the bed, hands touching, lips caressing, hot breath on sensitive skin.

"I'll show you how much." Sam lowered her to the bed, hovering over her. He felt her excitement as he slid into her, slowly filling her, and his groan of pleasure was matched by her own. He held himself in her as he covered her with his body. He looked down at her, watching her eyes drift closed in pleasure as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He pulled her tight against him, burying himself as deep in her as he could.

He groaned at the tight heat of her body caressing the length of him. He began to slowly roll his hips, moving deep inside her. She whimpered and struggled and moved against him. The intensity of passion that flowed from her pores filled his head like sweet perfume. Her eyes fluttered, dark lashes resting on her blushing cheeks. She gasped and arched her body against him when he began to thrust into her, building a steady rhythm.

"Oh God," she whispered. He pushed harder, faster into her. She was coming apart, frenzied, racing toward orgasm. He feasted on all the emotion, the passion coming from her and flowing through him. His own body raced toward orgasm. "Sam?" she pleaded. The sound of his name on her lips, the velvet, hot spasms of her body and sinfully passionate sounds that came from her pushed him over the edge, and he reached his own climax.

He had her. She was smiling, drifting in the soft afterglow, coming down slowly from climax. He had patiently waited, cautiously played and coaxed her, and finally claimed her. This wouldn't be a onetime thing for them. He was sure of it.

Sam lowered himself beside Alta and lay on his side. He spooned her up against him and wrapped himself around her. She fit perfectly into him with his chin resting on top of her head. She sighed deeply, humming a satisfied little sound. The long, tiring day had taken its toll and he could feel her body relaxing and drifting into sleep. His lust had been satisfied and was gone. Still, her body was soft and warm. He was comfortable like this. He felt her rhythmic breathing as she fell asleep. He didn't sleep. He never slept, but he rested tonight, holding his prize in his arms.

* * *

"I don't know." Samuel sighed and ran his hand across his eyes as if that simple gesture could relieve the pressure building in his head. "Sam's not like any hunter I've ever worked with. He scares me. I don't need that kind of recklessness. I'd rather do this on my own, with my own crew. We can hunt and take out monsters just fine without him."

Samuel was pacing. He'd seen what Sam was capable of. Collateral damage didn't bother Sam. He never gave it a second thought. And Samuel didn't want to find out just how far Sam was willing to go. "You bring me a man without a soul and expect me to get him to play well with others?"

"Well, you'd better figure it out." Crowley smiled, and it sent chills down Samuel's spine.

Samuel hated this, but he had no choice. He'd made a deal with a demon.

"I own Sam Winchester," Crowley growled out, "and I want him hunting for me! You're going to make that happen. You're going to need him, because I'm upping the ante." He nailed Samuel with cold eyes.

Here it was, the bait and switch. Crowley always changed the rules to suit him, and it usually screwed Samuel when he did it.

"You're going to bring me creatures ALIVE!"

"What?"

"That's right. I want them breathing, kicking and screaming. and you'll need my soulless hunter to do that. Do we understand each other?"

"Yeah." Samuel gave a heavy sigh. He hated working for Crowley, but it was his ticket out of Hell. And Crowley had promised to bring back his daughter, Mary.

"Of course, you still can't let Sam know about your deal with me. You know he hates me. We have a history, and he'd never stay with you if he knew about me. Oh." Crowley's finger went up as if he'd remembered something else. "Don't let him know where you take these creatures or what you do with them. Best to keep him in the dark." He took a deep breath. "Now, I have to go prepare a place for all my creatures. I'll let you know where to bring them," he said with a smirk.

Samuel was resigned to the situation. He was just where Crowley wanted him and they both knew it. Samuel would do his job and he would get Sam to do the job too. He didn't have a choice. He never had a choice with Crowley.

* * *

Alta woke up in Sam's bed, snuggled in crisp sheets, warm comforter and soft pillow—alone. She peeked out and saw Sam through the open bedroom door. He was sitting at his laptop, his back to her. She could still feel the warm skin of his back, the hard muscles of his arms beneath her fingers when she held tightly to him as he thrust into her. The memory of feeling him inside her made her body flush hot. She remembered falling asleep in his arms and she hated that he'd left the bed.

"Morning," he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. "We need to be getting back to the compound soon. You want some breakfast? I've got cereal." He turned his attention once again to the laptop. He had already showered and dressed. Her clothes had been folded and laid on the foot of the bed.

"Morning," she answered, a strange little feeling nestled deep in her gut.

She dressed quickly and in silence. Sam remained focused on his research. When she came out of the bedroom and walked past him at the table, she had a sudden urge to run her hand across his shoulder, but something made her hesitate—kept her hand at her side. She rummaged through the cabinets and found the cereal and some bowls.

"I like corn flakes. You want some?" She found the spoons and took the milk from the refrigerator.

"I had some earlier," he answered absently without looking up from his research. She glanced at the sink—no dirty bowl, then at the drain—no bowl there. The guy was definitely a neat freak. There was nothing out of place, right down to her hastily discarded clothes folded and placed on the foot of the bed. _This could be a challenge_, she thought.

"It's five a.m., Sam. What time did you get up?" She sat across the table from him, munching her cereal.

"I've been up for a while."

"You didn't get much sleep. You okay?"

"Yeah." He closed the laptop and waited for her to finish eating.

_God,_ she thought. _Getting conversation out of this man is like pulling teeth!_ It wasn't something new for him, but after what they'd shared she thought he might be a little more comfortable talking with her

"I found some interesting hits. I think it's a case for us. I'd like to get this info to Samuel."

Sam had made passionate love to her last night. Alta remembered his touch, his embrace, his kisses, and she would have liked a little more of that this morning. She wondered why he seemed so indifferent this morning. She thought that he must be so broken, but then she also knew he was focused to the point of obsession with hunting.

"I'm sure Samuel will be delighted," she responded dryly. She spooned up the last mouthful of cereal and took her bowl and spoon to the sink, washed them out and left them in the drain. Then she headed to the bathroom.

After she'd showered and redressed, she came out to find Sam had just finished cleaning and loading his handgun. He stood, placed it down the back of his jeans and walked over to the closet. He retrieved her jacket, holding it out to her.

"You're very quiet this morning," she said, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes. "What happened to you, Sam? Or have you always been so closed off?" She took her jacket, holding it by her side as she stood in front of him.

"You don't know what happened?" he asked. "I was possessed by Lucifer. I jumped into Hell and stuffed him back into his cage and—"

"That's not what I'm talking about, Sam. Samuel told us all that." She looked into his emotionless eyes. "I guess...I mean, maybe you should talk to someone about it. Samuel maybe?"

"He knows. He was pulled down when I was pulled up. He doesn't know why; I don't know why. We figure whoever—"

"That's not the kind of talking I mean, Sam." God, the man was totally cut off from his emotions. What had she gotten herself into?

"What else is there to talk about?" He looked puzzled, as if he had no idea what she meant.

"Your feelings, maybe? I'm sure what you went through was...disturbing."

"You mean Hell?"

"Well, yeah. I mean...I can't even imagine—"

"No." He turned away. "I'm fine."

_Dude, you are anything but fine!_ she thought. Suddenly, she felt like the cold, unfeeling one. She was being callous about something that had to be emotionally crushing to him, and she felt such a surge of sympathy for him that she reached up and pulled him back around to face her. She tugged him down, kissing him lightly on the cheek. She thought it was incredibly sad, and she couldn't imagine what he went through in Hell. Sam was so handsome, so tall, so powerful. She couldn't help but be drawn to him. But he was also wounded, and the desire to comfort him was strong. She slipped her hands around his waist and laid her cheek against his chest.

Sam's reaction took Alta by surprise. She meant to be sympathetic, but he obviously mistook her affection. He grabbed her face, his lips hard on hers, his tongue insistent against her lips. He pushed her toward the sofa, pulling her shirt over her head and grabbing for her bra. He pushed her down on the sofa and crawled over her.

This was not what she wanted, not this way. He was rough and demanding, without feeling. She pushed against him, breaking the kiss. Anger burned in her, oozing from her pores. She'd been hurt before, abused and forced. She promised herself a long time ago that no man would ever force her again.

"Sam! Stop!" She rolled back, pulled her knees up and, using both feet on his chest, shoved him hard. He stumbled back off the sofa. She sprang up after him and landed a right hook to his jaw. He didn't try to defend himself. He stood and waited for her next blow.

"What the hell, Sam?" She was breathless, still seething.

"Alta, I don't know what to say. I misunderstood. I thought...You're right." He held his hands up, palms out, head bowed, submissive. She'd never seen him like that. "I shouldn't have pushed you. I don't want to hurt you. I just—I didn't understand. I thought..." She'd never seen him so at a loss before. He seemed so sincere, so distraught.

"Don't ever touch me like that again—not without my permission—or I'll shoot you." She grabbed her shirt, redressing in stilted, angry movements. "Let's just go."

Alta didn't know what to think. She wanted Sam. Her body desired him. But she was determined she would never let herself be used by any man, even Sam Winchester.

* * *

Sam watched her stalk out the door, all full of righteous wrath. But he knew her anger would subside. Obviously he seriously misjudged what she wanted from him. She smelled like passion, like sex and he thought that's what she wanted, but that was a serious miscalculation on his part.

He wasn't worried. He knew how to regroup. He would figure out what he did wrong. He would learn how to read her. He didn't love her, but in his soulless mind he'd claimed her, and he had no intention of letting her go.

_This is going to be a challenge_, he thought as he followed her out the door.

* * *

_**This story is continued in Family Secrets Chapter Two**_


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